A Walk In The Park
by Littlefish
Summary: Pre-series. Dean 21, Sam 17. A routine salt-and-burn turns into anything but, as a series of misfortunes leave the Winchester boys not only hunting, but being hunted. Plenty of h/c and angst.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer**__: Don't own…not making profit. (Unless you count the perverse pleasure I receive from whumping on our boys profit. __ )_

_**Summary**__: Pre-series. Dean 21, Sam 17. A routine salt-and-burn turns into anything but, as a series of misfortunes leave the Winchester boys not only hunting, but being hunted. Plenty of h/c and angst._

_**A/N**__: A huge thank you to all who read, reviewed, favorited and followed my other story, Into the Wild. You are my inspiration and encouragement. This story is pretty much completely written, and I plan on updating it at least once a week, but reviews do encourage me to post faster. _

_Also, please note that all three Winchesters are in this story, but John will definitely be playing a more secondary/background role._

_Thanks to first_catfish for beta reading this story for me._

**Chapter 1 **

The camp fire popped and crackled, a small shower of sparks drifting lazily upward through the thin canopy of trees toward the vast array of stars twinkling above. A cacophony of insects chirped and buzzed in the night, and somewhere back within the trees an owl hooted its lonely cry.

Sara Littleton shifted on the log she was currently using as a chair, trying in vain to find a more comfortable position on the hard wood. Almost unconsciously her hands came up to rub briskly at her arms, feeling slightly chilled in the cool June evening despite the warm glow of the fire. Her lips pursed out in a slightly pouty expression as her gaze swept the darkened trees surrounding the small campsite. A slight shift in the wind sent the smoke from the campfire curling in her direction, and she quickly held her breath, her head tilted slightly to one side and her eyes squinted closed against the burn of the smoke.

"What's wrong, Sara? Aren't you having fun?"

Sara cracked open her eyes, taking a cautious breath of air as the smoke shifted directions once more. She peered across the campfire at her friend and room-mate, Jenna Wilson, doing her best to paste on a convincing smile. "Of course I'm having fun," she lied. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Jenna smiled back sweetly, then turned her attention to the tall, gangly boy sitting to her right. "Hey, Mat? I heard Dr. Beardsly assigned you an extra research paper in World History," she taunted lightly, nudging the young man with one shoulder.

Mat grumbled some sort of response under his breath, causing Jenna to laugh. Sara watched from across the fire, feeling a slight twinge of jealously at the completely casual way her friend slouched down against her own log, looking completely relaxed and comfortable, as at home out here miles from any civilization as she was back in their dorm room.

Sara, on the other hand, sat stiff and tense, her eyes continually scanning her body for any stray insects that might happen to land on her, as completely out of her element as a ballerina on a basketball court.

She found herself wondering for the hundredth time how she had allowed herself to be talked into coming on this trip. When Jenna had found out that she had never been camping before, she'd refused to let up until Sara had agreed to come. Her room-mate could be pretty persuasive when she got her mind set on something, and in truth, Sara had _wanted_ to come, if for no other reason than to feel included. Now, she wasn't so sure. She was pretty certain her mother was rolling over in her grave right now, and she could clearly imagine her father's disapproving scowl. Camping was not _ladylike_, after all, and the Littletons prided themselves on dignity and propriety in any and all situations.

"_So unlike Jenna_," Sara thought. Jenna was freedom and spontaneity from her close cut blond hair down to the butterfly tattoo on her ankle. She was bubbly and mischievous and sweet, and e_veryone_ liked her. Sara didn't think Jenna had any idea how much she envied her.

"Want a marshmallow?"

Sara turned and blinked at Jared, the fourth and final member of their small company. He smiled at her and thrust out a stick with the blackened remains of a marshmallow dripping from the end. Sara eyed the marshmallow uncertainly, trying to think if there was any way to eat it without making a sticky mess. Deciding there wasn't, she shook her head in the negative.

"Actually, I…umm...need to use the restroom," She admitted, blushing slightly as she glanced around at the dark trees surrounding them. She had been holding it for some time, unable to face the thought of squatting at the base of some tree with nothing but a wadded up napkin to use as toilet paper. Her Aunt Marian would faint straight away if she ever heard about this.

"Third tree on your left," Mat quipped, grinning at her slyly. "Be careful not to step on any snakes out there. Or worse…wake up the wildlife."

Sara froze in the act of rising, her eyes widening.

"Oh shut up, Mat," Jenna smacked his shoulder before turning her attention to Sara. "Don't worry," she soothed. "Any animals out there will be more scared of you than you are of them." She reached down and grabbed a small, blue flashlight from beside the log, tossing it casually across the fire toward Sara.

Sara fumbled to catch the flashlight but ended up dropping it. Jared hurried to pick it up, smiling gently as he handed it over. Hoping they would think the red in her cheeks was from the fire, Sara hurried away, flipping on the flashlight as she moved from the light of the camp.

Wondering how on earth she was going to survive three nights of this, she hurried into the trees, angling away from the campfire. Her hands were shaking slightly, sending the beam from the flashlight bouncing and skittering off the trunks of the trees.

"Get a hold of yourself, girl," she muttered to herself, pushing further into the dense trees.

Squatting down behind the leafy branches of a thick bush, she quickly did her business then rose, anxious to get back to the light of the camp. Suddenly, a cold shiver ran up her spine, causing the hair on her arms and the back of her neck to stand on end. She froze, uncertain what had triggered her alarm, her heart hammering a wild tattoo within her chest. She listened intently for any stray sound, but the night was quiet; far _too_ quiet. The buzz and hum of insects that had been constant since the moment the sun went down was suddenly, eerily absent. Sara might not have ever been camping before, but she had seen enough movies to know that was definitely _not_ a good sign.

Her breathing picked up a notch, and she had to swallow hard against the knot of fear building in her throat. She stumbled forward, tripping over branches as she hurried back toward the flickering light of the camp. She had almost made it when a scream ripped through the stillness of the night, the sound harsh and guttural and completely inhuman. It came from directly in front of her, in the direction of the camp, and Sara stumbled to a halt, eyes widening in terror.

"_It's a trick."_ She thought desperately, her breath rasping in and out in short, sharp pants. "_Mat's just being a jerk and trying to scare me again."_

But no sooner had this thought crossed her mind, then another scream split through the night, this one most definitely human and filled with pain and fear. The scream sounded a second time, jerking Sara from her frozen state.

"Jenna," she gasped, stumbling forward despite her panic, fear for her friend driving her onward. She reached the edge of the camp and cautiously peered around the trunk of a large tree, nearly fainting at the sight that awaited her.

Jenna lay face-down and unmoving on the ground next to the fire, her blond hair glowing oddly in the dancing light of the flames, her pink shirt torn and stained dark with blood. Standing directly above her, bloody mouth pulled back in an angry snarl, stood the golden form of a giant mountain lion. One of the cat's large paws rested on Jenna's lower back, claws digging deeply into her flesh.

Across the fire, Jared stood with a burning branch gripped tightly in one hand, his face white, his mouth pulled tight in a grimace of fear. There was no sign of Mat anywhere. "G-get b-back," Jared stuttered, his voice coming out broken and terrified. He waved the burning branch in front of him warningly.

The cat's giant head followed the swaying path of the branch, its eyes glowing strangely white, and then it let out another coughing scream, the sound nearly causing Sara's knees to buckle in fright. The air around her suddenly seemed to drop several degrees, causing her to shudder with the unexpected cold, and her breath came out in a puffy cloud before her face.

Tearing her eyes away from the terrifying specter of the cat, she glanced wildly around, uncertain what she was looking for, but desperate for help. Almost immediately her eyes fell on the shadowy form of a man leaning casually against the base of a tree on the far side of the camp. At first Sara thought it was Mat, and she felt a flare of confusion…how could he just be standing there?

A second later, however, the man straightened, and Sara realized with a jolt of surprise that it was not Mat after all. This man was much older, with a thick beard covering his jaw and upper lip. He wore the traditional garb of a backwoodsman…worn pants and a flannel shirt…and his skin seemed to be glowing with a strange white light.

The cat's head swiveled toward the stranger, and Sara saw the man's lips move, as though he were talking to the animal, though she could hear no sound. The man's gaze flickered toward Jared, his expression twisted in a sneer, and then he flickered once and vanished, his sudden disappearance robbing Sara of her ability to breathe.

The cat turned its attention back toward Jared, swirling white lights flickering in the depths of its eyes. With a low growl, the animal crouched, the muscles in its shoulders bunching as it prepared to pounce.

Without a thought, Sara turned and fled into the woods.

Behind her, she heard Jared scream.

* * *

Sam was bored.

He shifted restlessly in the front seat of the Impala, trying to find an angle where he could stretch out his long legs and relieve some of the stiffness in his back and hips. Thirty-two hours stuck in the car with only the occasional rest stop or gas station was taking its toll on his body. It looked as though his summer break was starting off in typical fashion.

Letting out a long sigh, he twisted in the seat, banging his knee roughly against the bottom of the dash and drawing a scowl from his brother sitting in the driver's seat.

"Dude, careful with the car," Dean muttered, giving him a warning glare.

Sam rolled his eyes. Ever since Dad had given Dean the car three years ago when his brother had turned eighteen, Dean had treated the old classic like it was a priceless gem, jealously guarding it and wrathful of anyone or anything that might do it the slightest harm. Sam thought it was a little ridiculous, but had long since learned that arguing about it got him absolutely nowhere.

"Sorry," he muttered, "just trying to get comfortable."

Dean shook his head. "Why don't you get out and walk around a little," he suggested, his expression a little _overly_ patient. "Dad's probably going to be a little while yet."

Sam nodded, having just been thinking the same thing. He opened the passenger door and unfolded himself from the seat, feeling somewhat like a jack-in-the-box popping free from its confines. He remembered a time not too distant when the Impala had felt open and roomy to him, with plenty of space to move around. That had been before he'd hit a growth spurt nearly a year ago.

Dean was constantly asking him when he was going to stop growing. Already Sam was slightly taller than his brother… as tall as their dad… and he took some satisfaction in the knowledge that this fact irritated his brother more than a little. It wasn't like his height gave him any sort of advantage. Dean was still better at fighting and shooting and just about everything else, but Sam would take what he could get. At least Dean had stopped referring to him as his "baby brother."

Stretching aching muscles, he glanced around him, taking in the tall hills and wooded peaks that surrounded the sprawling town of Price, Utah. Standing as the gateway to Huntington State Park in the Rocky Mountains, the town was a favorite supply point for hikers and campers heading into the park. It was an affluent town, its streets and parks neat and clean, its buildings quaint and well maintained. In short, it looked like any of the hundreds of other small towns Sam had passed through.

What made Price noteworthy to the Winchesters was that in the last two months, over a dozen campers and hikers had been killed in the nearby state park. All of the deaths were being blamed on wild animal attacks. The latest victims, three college students from a nearby university, had been attacked by a mountain lion. It was their bodies that his father was currently examining in the morgue.

There was nothing in particular about the attacks that suggested it was _their_ kind of problem, but there was enough strangeness in the details to pique their father's interest. First, there was the sheer number of attacks in such a short period of time. And second, the attacks themselves…bear, wolf, even elk, and now a mountain lion. One rouge animal in an area was understandable, but multiple…? It was strange enough to have spooked the state park authorities into closing down the various camp grounds in the area and restricting access to that portion of the park.

Sam glanced over at the shiny, black truck parked a few spaces away, wondering idly how much longer their father would be in the morgue. Walking over to the truck he ran his hands along the shiny black metal, deciding then and there that his first vehicle would be a truck with adjustable seats and plenty of leg room. Perhaps his father would pass along his cherished truck to him when _he_ turned eighteen. He somehow doubted it. After all, he wasn't the good son…

With a sigh, Sam turned and took off along the sidewalk, making for the open field on the south side of the building, his thoughts turning back to the latest argument he'd had with his dad. It had been several days ago, and he honestly couldn't clearly remember what had started the fight, or even what it had been about. It had escalated quickly, however, and they had been in the middle of a full on shouting match when Dean had forcefully intervened, shoving his body between them. Two days on the road in separate vehicles had helped ease some of the tension, but not all.

It wasn't very long ago that Sam wouldn't have dared challenge his father…would have swallowed his thoughts and opinions and quietly followed orders as he had always been taught to do. But recently something had changed within him, and Sam knew exactly when that change had started. Mr. Wyatt, an English teacher at a school Sam had stayed at for less than a month his freshman year had asked him a single question: Did he want to go into the family business? Sam had never been asked that question before, and so it had taken him by surprise at how quickly and certainly the answer had come to him. No.

And as easily as that, a shift had taken place inside him…an invisible line crossed. All the bitterness, frustration and discontent with the way they lived their lives had bloomed full force within him, growing and expanding, feeding the longing and desire for something else…something _more_. He had felt the transformation begin… the transformation from the boy who blindly followed and obeyed all orders to the young man who questioned and challenged everything. He began to chafe under his father's authoritarianism and tight control, and try as he might, he could no longer hide his dissatisfaction.

He knew his sudden change in attitude had caught his father and brother completely off guard. John saw Sam's behavior as rebelliousness, and had immediately attempted to squash it with even stricter rules and harsher punishments. But Sam's discontent was like a wild beast…once let out, it refused to be put back in its cage. Now, it seemed like barely a day passed without he and his father arguing about _something_.

Walking along the edge of the field, Sam watched a group of boys playing baseball in the distance. Not for the first time, he wondered what it would be like to spend his summer like a normal seventeen year old…playing baseball, swimming, or just lazing the days away. Instead, he got long hours cooped up in the car, cheap hotels, bad food, and an endless variety of creatures that went bump in the night. He felt the all too familiar bitterness rising up in his chest, and had to force his thoughts in another direction.

_One more summer, _Sam thought, turning away from the baseball game and moving toward a small copse of trees at the far edge of the field. It was a phrase he had repeated to himself over and over again lately. By this time next year, he would be graduated from high school and free to go his own way. He already had plans to go to college, though he hadn't told his father and brother yet. It was a plan that had been in the making for the last two years, and Sam was determined to see it through. He _had_ to see it through, because unlike his dad and brother, he could _not_ face a life filled with nothing but hunting.

It wouldn't be easy. Sam had no money to call his own, barring a couple hundred dollars earned from the occasional odd job. He knew he couldn't expect any financial support from his father, which meant he would need to provide for himself. He had managed to maintain a 4.0 GPA in school so far, and if he could maintain that through his senior year, he felt he had a fairly good chance of picking up a scholarship or two. Of course, his ACT scores would be taken into account as well, but Sam had already begun studying for the test, and felt confident that he would do well. Constantly moving would make things difficult, but it wasn't like Sam wasn't already used to that particular problem. He had overcome it so far, and would continue to do so.

A sharp whistle from behind him pulled him from his thoughts. He turned back toward the parking lot, quickly locating his brother as he leaned against the side of the Impala. Dean motioned him to come back, and Sam glanced toward the building in time to see his father striding down the steps, looking strangely formal in a suit and tie. Pushing down a resigned sigh, he hurried back toward the parking lot, reaching the car at the same time as his father.

"So, what did you find?" Dean asked, straightening from his slouch against the car as the three men came together.

John shrugged out of his suit jacket and tossed it into the back seat of the Impala, then reached up and began tugging loose the tie from around his neck. "Not much," he admitted shortly. "Nothing to show that it was anything other than what was reported, anyway. No missing organs or strange wounds on the body. The cat just tore them up. Didn't even eat them…just killed them."

"So you don't think there's anything here?" Dean actually sounded disappointed.

John shook his head. "Didn't say that," he answered. "The bodies might not have told me much, but the mortician certainly did."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked.

John glanced at him, his hazel eyes sparkling in the late afternoon sun. "He told me about the girl that survived…the one they pulled from the woods a few days ago. Sara Littleton. Apparently she told the police quite the story when they found her, but it never made it to the papers…her father hushed it up before it could go that far. He claims she was panicked and delusional."

"So, what _is _her story?" Dean asked, interested once more.

"Sara claims she saw a man watching the attack from the edge of the camp," John explained. "A man who _disappeared._"

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Definitely sounds like our kind of weird," he stated, casting Sam a quick grin before turning back to their father. "I take it our next step is to talk to this Sara chick?"

John nodded. "She's still at the local hospital, but word has it that her father plans to have her moved to a private hospital closer to home, which means we need to hurry if we want to talk to her before she leaves. Dean, you'll be coming in on this one with me, so be ready."

Dean nodded, switching into work mode in the blink of an eye, his features becoming focused and intent. He turned and pulled open the door to the Impala, slipping into the driver's seat as John turned and strode back toward his truck.

With a small sigh, Sam moved around to the passenger seat and slipped in next to his brother.

Like it or not, the hunt was on.

* * *

Sara Littleton was a good looking girl, Dean thought. Or at least, she would have been if she hadn't look so frightened and timid, like an abused puppy cowering in the corner of the bed, large eyes turned up to them warily

"Who did you say you were again?" she asked hesitantly, chewing on her bottom lip, her hands fisted in the blanket pulled up over her lap

"My name is John Williams, and this is my son, Dean. We're investigative agents for the Department of Forestry," John told her gently, flashing an official looking badge before slipping it back into his jacket pocket. "Anytime there is a wild animal attack within a state park we have to investigate."

Sara swallowed hard, her fingers twisting in the thin blanket stretched over her lap. "But I already gave my story to the forest rangers who found me, and again to the local police," she argued weakly, sounding slightly desperate at the idea of having to recount her story yet again.

"I know, Ms. Littleton," John replied soothingly, "but unfortunately we have to write up our own report. Policy, you know?" he gave her an apologetic shrug. "We promise to make this as quick as possible."

Sara swallowed hard, her eyes darting around the room as though in search of an avenue of escape. Apparently realizing there was none, she looked back at them, the reluctance in her eyes evident. "What is it you want to know?" she asked softly.

John gave Dean the barest hint of a glance, and taking the cue, Dean stepped forward. "Why don't you just tell us what you told the police," he suggested gently, offering the girl his most charming smile. Sara nodded slowly, and Dean noted with satisfaction the slight blush that stained her cheeks.

"We were camping up near Black River," she began, her eyes locked on Dean's face. "We had just set up camp and were roasting some marshmallows as a late night snack before turning in. I left camp to use the restroom, and was just heading back when I heard it…" She broke off, swallowing hard, her eyes dropping to her lap.

"What was it that you heard?" John prompted quietly.

"The wild-cat," Sara whispered. "It had this coughing scream. I thought it was Mat playing tricks on me at first…trying to scare me, but then…" she broke off once more, her hands twisting into fists in the blankets.

Dean and John waited patiently for Sara to regain her composure, and eventually the girl continued, her gaze still locked on a spot on her lap. "I saw the cat standing over Jenna," she whispered. "I'm pretty sure she was already dead. I didn't see Mat, but Jared was trying to scare the thing off with a branch. I knew the animal was about to attack, and I sorta panicked." Sara looked up at them, and Dean inwardly flinched at the pool of tears filling her eyes. He hated it when girls cried.

"I ran." Sara choked out, the tears now spilling freely down her cheeks. "I was so scared, and I just ran. Jared was always kind to me, and I just left him there," she choked, her body racked with sobs.

Dean cast a slightly desperate glance in his father's direction. Dealing with emotionally distraught females was definitely not his forte.

"Sara," John said firmly, waiting until the girl looked up before continuing. "There is nothing you could have done to help your friends even if you _had_ stayed. You did the right thing in getting out of there."

Dean nodded his support even as he wondered if his father really believed what he was saying. As a Marine, John would never have dreamed of leaving behind a fellow soldier, no matter what the consequences. Sara might not be a soldier, but Dean's experience had taught him that his father didn't always bother with such distinctions when doling out judgment.

With an obvious effort, Sara brought herself back under control. Reaching for a tissue from a box on the bedside stand, she hurriedly wiped at her eyes. "After that, I wandered around for a while…I'm afraid I got somewhat lost…before the park rangers found me. They told me later they found their bodies…all three of them. I had hoped maybe Mat had managed to get away, but…" She trailed off, looking as though she was fighting off another bout of tears.

"What about the man you saw?" John prompted gently, and Dean noted how Sara jerked at his question, looking up at them with wide, frightened eyes.

"You know about that?" she gasped, her cheeks flushing a deep red. "Look… when I told the police that story I was…umm…a little out of it. I was pretty freaked out, and I guess maybe my mind was just playing tricks on me. That's what my father and the doctors say anyway."

"I'm sure they're right," John assured her with a quick smile. "It's just that we need to document everything you remember…whether real _or_ imagined."

When Sara continued to hesitate, Dean jumped in to reassure her. "Don't worry, Ms. Littleton, this conversation is completely confidential. None of it will make it to the public. Just tell us what you saw."

Sara looked back and forth between them before finally giving in with a hesitant shrug. "I thought I saw a man standing on the far side of the camp," she admitted slowly. "He was there one minute, and then the next he vanished. I guess that just serves as proof that he really _was_ part of my imagination. There's not really much more to tell than that."

"Can you tell us what the man looked like?" Dean asked, leaning forward slightly and giving Sara another encouraging smile.

"Sure," Sara stammered. "He was pretty tall, with an orange beard and mustache. He was wearing a red flannel shirt and tan pants. He looked kinda rough and unkempt, you know, and it was almost like he was…flickering?" She looked up at them, her expression telling Dean that she was waiting for them to tell her she was crazy.

"Is there anything else you can tell us," John asked. "Any sudden chill or strange smell to the air?"

Sara frowned, beginning to shake her head, but a second later her expression turned to one of surprise. "It went cold," she blurted, looking back and forth between them with wide eyes. "It was really weird because while the night was cool, it wasn't _that_ bad, if you know what I mean. But suddenly, I was really, really cold. I could see my breath and everything."

Dean exchanged a quick glance with his father, feeling a flash of excitement. Bingo. They were finally on to something.

"What does that mean?" Sara whispered, watching their faces with a frightened expression.

"You were probably in shock, Ms. Littleton," John turned his attention back to her, his voice calm and soothing. "You can get chilled sometimes when your body goes through a traumatic event."

Sara stared at him, and Dean got the distinct impression she wasn't buying the explanation.

"Anything else?" he asked quickly, trying to distract her. "Anything at all?"

Sara hesitated for a moment, her eyes flickering to meet Dean's. He could tell she was debating telling them something, and he kept his expression open and friendly, hoping to encourage her to open up.

"Well," she began slowly, "it's not really something specific. More just an impression, if you know what I mean."

"Go on," Dean urged.

"Well, it sorta seemed to me like the man was…you know…egging the wild-cat on or something. I'm not really sure how to describe it…but…it just felt like he was encouraging it to attack..." She trailed off slowly, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. "I know this all sounds crazy, but it's what I saw."

John gave her a brief smile. "It doesn't sound crazy at all. Your mind can play all sorts of tricks on you in stressful situations. It's perfectly normal, and I wouldn't worry about it." He turned and met Dean's eye, his silent message clear.

Dean turned to Sara. "Thanks for your time, Ms. Littleton," he said formally. "That should be all we need for our report. If we have any further questions, we'll be in touch."

Sara nodded, looking at once both relieved and confused by the abrupt ending to the interview. Dean gave her a final smile before following his father to the door, stepping out into the hallway and closing the door softly behind him.

"Time to hit the town library," John stated as soon as the door was shut.

Dean nodded his silent agreement, and together they turned and headed toward the exit.

* * *

"I think I've found something." Sam's soft statement caught the attention of both his dad and brother.

For the last couple of hours, Sam had been reviewing old articles that had been scanned and entered into the computer system at Price City Library. It was slow, tedious work, but he found he enjoyed it. It was a nice break from being cooped up in a car for hours on end with nothing to do but play old car games with Dean…games that had gotten old by the time Sam had turned seven.

John rose and moved around the table to stand behind Sam, while Dean, who had been sitting beside him, lay down his own research and leaned over. Sam quickly scrolled to the top of the page, revealing the article's title '_Radical Naturalist Shot and Killed By Poachers' _displayed in big block letters over a black and white picture of a large, bearded man standing in front of a small cabin, shotgun slung casually over one shoulder.

John gave the photo a cursory glance, then turned to Sam. "Why don't you sum it up for us, son?"

Sam nodded. "Jeremiah Moulder," he stated simply, pointing to the man in the picture. "He was a naturalist and recluse who lived within the park back in the early sixties. According to the article, he was a bit of an extremist."

"What kind of extremist?" Dean asked, still scanning the article over Sam's shoulder.

"Well, let's just say that he preferred his four legged friends over his two legged." Sam replied succinctly. "He dedicated his whole life to fighting for stricter hunting laws and harsher punishments for poachers…all with little success. He was arrested _six_ times for trying to take matters into his own hands by running off hunters…and the last time he actually spent eight months in jail for firing his rifle at them." He paused, shaking his head a little. "Then comes the grand finale. In 1963, he was accidentally killed by poachers when he tried to come between them and the mountain lion they were hunting."

"A pissed off extremist who suffered a violent death," John muttered quietly, gripping the back of Sam's chair.

"Perfect recipe for a homicidal ghost," Dean finished triumphantly, grinning excitedly.

"This could be it," John acknowledged. "Does the article say where Jeremiah was buried?"

Sam nodded. "Near his cabin. The article says it was located just past the point where Black River splits in two."

Without prompting, Dean reached for the map at the center of the table, leaning over and squinting at the tiny print. "Got it," he finally said, placing his finger on a point near the center of the map. Then he let out a slow whistle.

Glancing over, Sam immediately saw what had gotten his brother's attention. Earlier, they had placed red dots on the map indicating each location where there had been an attack. Dean's finger now rested near the exact center of the cluster of dots.

"Well, that's proof enough for me," John stated, straightening from behind Sam and moving back to his own chair. He began hurriedly stacking the unused books and articles they had spread around them.

Sam shook his head, still staring down at the map. "If this really is our guy, it means he's working a pretty large area." He said slowly. "I thought ghosts were tied to a single area…like where their remains are buried or where they lived or died?"

John shrugged. "In most cases, yeah. But there are exceptions." He turned to glance at Dean. "Remember that Jewel Cave ghost we helped Bobby with up in South Dakota a few years back? Those caves ran for over 166 miles, and the ghost had free run of it all."

Dean shuddered. "Don't remind me," he grunted. "I still have nightmares about that one."

John smiled slightly and turned back to Sam. "I don't know, son," he continued. "It may be Jeremiah considered the whole woods his home and not just his cabin, or it might be because he's hitching rides in the animals he's possessing. Whatever the case, it's our job to stop him."

"Have you ever heard of anything like this before, Dad?" Dean asked, his brow furrowing. "Ghosts using animals to gank people?"

John shook his head. "It's a new one for me," he admitted, "but it's not that surprising. Certain ghosts, if they're strong enough, can possess people…make them do what they want. It can't be much different with animals."

"I still don't get what started him off," Sam broke in. "I mean, Jeremiah's been dead for over thirty years, but the attacks didn't start until a couple of months ago."

"I think I might know the answer to that," John replied, turning to shuffle through a large stack of newspapers. "I came across an article a while back about the state park contracting with a Timber company to go in and do some slash and burn work. If I remember correctly, the timber company was supposed to begin work mid-April and the proposed area includes the land around Jeremiah's cabin. I'll bet you anything they managed to inadvertently wake his spirit up."

"Fire and lots of falling trees? That would probably do it," Dean agreed, leaning back in his chair and stretching muscles aching from too many hours bent over books. "And the time frame fits. The first attack happened end of April. Looks like we got the information we need. Now all we need to do is drive out to this cabin, find Jeremiah's bones and torch them. We should be done and out in less than a day."

"Don't be too sure about that," John replied dryly. "There's more to that article I was reading. A bad storm blew through this area two weeks ago and washed out all the access roads back into the park, including the only drivable bridge across Black River. The Timber company had work crews out repairing them, but when the park authorities closed down the area, they pulled all the workers out. The roads are still listed as 'impassable'."

Dean let out a groan. "Great. Jeremiah's cabin is like twenty miles into the park!"

John glanced toward the clock on the wall over the reception desk, then reached for his coat slung over a nearby chair. "We'll grab a hotel in town for tonight, then head out first thing in the morning," he stated, shrugging into the coat. "We'll take my truck as far as we can, then hike the rest of the way in on foot. Get ready to do some camping, boys."

Sam couldn't hold back a small sigh, drawing his brother's eye. "What's wrong, Sammy?" he asked, clapping Sam over the shoulder. "You always used to ask why we couldn't spend our summers going camping like normal folk. Well, here's your chance."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean, camping out in the wilderness with a killer ghost using animals to rip people to shreds isn't the _normal_ I was looking for."

Dean smirked, his green eyes flashing mischievously. "Ahh, don't worry, Sammy," he quipped. "I'll keep you safe from the bad ol' putty tat."

"Shut up." Sam glared at him.

"Enough, both of you." John stepped in before it could get out of hand. "Your heads in the game?"

"Yes sir," both boys chorused obediently, Dean with a bit more enthusiasm than Sam.

John nodded in satisfaction, then led the way from the library. One way or another, the next day promised to be very interesting.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter. I meant to get this posted early for you, but real life got in the way. Still, I want you to know I appreciate you very much! Hope you like this chapter..._

**Chapter 2**

"Oh, this is just great," Dean grumbled as he slipped from the front passenger seat of his father's truck. He glared up at the thick, gray clouds overhead before pulling the collar of his canvas jacket up against the steady drizzle of rain. A long hike through the rain, just what he'd always dreamed of.

A spluttered curse from behind him caused Dean to turn, and for a moment he forgot his own discontent at the sight of his little brother ankle deep in a muddy puddle of water. Obviously Sam had exited the truck without looking where his feet were landing him. The rough dirt road they had been following into the back woods of the state park would never be considered smooth even on the best of days, but the rain that had been falling all morning had turned it into a veritable minefield of muddy potholes. Sam had somehow managed to find one of the larger holes, and he muttered another curse as he pulled his feet free with a wet squelching sound.

Dean's face split in a wide grin, and he opened his mouth to comment on his brother's misfortune, but his father's rough voice from the other side of the truck cut him off.

"Alright boys, this is as far as we can go by truck. Grab the gear. We walk from here."

Dean's amusement faded just as quickly as it had come at his father's words. Normally, a day long trek through the woods with a salt-and-burn at the end would be considered an adventure, but the chilling rain that had greeted them as soon as they had woken up that morning had definitely thrown a wrench into things. What was worse, the weather anchor on the news had predicted the storm to last through the entire day. _Wet_ and _miserable_ would be the words for the day.

Dean grabbed the large army duffle filled with their tent, sleeping bags, and other camping supplies from the truck and tossed it to Sam, who caught it with a small grunt. Then he turned and grabbed the smaller, but slightly heavier bag containing their weapons; including two shotguns, plenty of ammo, a large canister of salt, fuel, and other miscellaneous hunting supplies they thought they might need. John grabbed the final bag, a large water-proof duffel containing a change of clothes for each man, the first aid kit, and the food.

"Come here a minute," John ordered, pulling a folded and laminated map from his coat pocket.

Dean and Sam circled the truck to their father's side, skillfully avoiding several large potholes in the process. A giant mound of dirt and rock rested in the middle of the road a few feet in front of the parked truck, marking the spot where the work crew had been forced to abandon their efforts to repair the washed-out road. A track-hoe and front-end-loader sat abandoned and silent to the side of the road, their owners having obviously left them in the hopes that they would soon be returning to the job.

"We didn't get as far into the park as I had hoped," John informed them when they gathered around him. He held the map out against the side of the truck, swiping a few drops of rain off the slick surface before pointing to a spot on the map to indicate their current location. "We'll follow this road until it reaches the river. Once we cross, we'll turn south and follow the river down to the point where it branches. Jeremiah's cabin should be in that area."

"How are we going to get across the river?" Sam asked with a frown. "I thought the bridge was washed out in the storm?"

"It was," John acknowledged, "but I talked to some rangers last night at the bar, and they told me there is a small foot bridge about a half mile down from the road. It's what hikers and hunters use to get to some of the more isolated areas. It's a little old and rickety, but should be passable."

"What do you mean a _little_ old and rickety?" Dean asked concernedly.

John just shrugged. "The rangers said it was scheduled to be replaced along with the new road. The storm did some damage to it, but it was still standing. It's the bridge Sara and her friends used to get to their campsite."

"Sounds awesome," Dean sighed.

John refolded the map and replaced it in his jacket before grabbing up his pack and slinging it across his shoulders. "Let's go," he said simply, before turning down the road and moving around the large pile of rubble.

Dean exchanged a brief glance with Sam before both boys moved to follow their father. If Dean had thought the road they had traveled to reach this point was rough, it was nothing compared to what they found beyond. In many places, the surface of the road had been completely washed away, leaving nothing but a muddy swamp that they carefully skirted. Even when the road was intact, it was so full of ruts, holes, and deep grooves filled with running water that it took all their attention to keep from tripping and falling flat on their faces. They briefly considered leaving the road and following it from the side, but the heavy trees grew right up to the side of the path, and any time they would have saved dodging potholes would be lost avoiding the trees.

There was little talking as everyone was too focused on watching their step, and the morning dragged onward in miserable silence and boredom. Dean found his mind wandering on more than one occasion, and he was glad they had not yet moved into the ghost's territory where they would need to remain on constant alert. The strap of the weapons bag dug deeply into his shoulder, and he was constantly having to lift a hand to wipe the rain from his face. That and the growing layer of mud weighing down his boots and making every step difficult made Dean wish this hunt was already over and done with. He couldn't believe that yesterday he had actually been looking forward to this.

At midday, they left the road for the dubious cover of a large oak tree where they ate their meager lunch of dried jerky and a few cans of baked beans. It was far from Dean's choice of a good meal, and he promised himself that as soon as they got back to town he was going to find a place where he could order the biggest bacon cheeseburger possible…extra onions. He was in the process of mentally daydreaming about which kind of pie he would choose for desert when he caught a glimpse of his brother from the corner of one eye. Sam sat slouched against the trunk of the tree, listlessly stirring his plastic spoon around in his can of baked beans, his sightless gaze fixed on a spot on the ground several feet in front of him, a slight frown creating ridges on his forehead.

Dean glanced toward his father, but John had pulled out the laminated map and seemed completely engrossed in studying it. Pushing himself to his feet with a soft moan, Dean moved over to the base of the tree and sank down beside his brother, his shoulder brushing against Sam's as he nudged him with one knee.

"How you doing, kiddo?" he asked, watching Sam's face intently for any indication of what was bothering his brother.

Sam pulled himself from his private musings enough to glance at Dean and give a one-shouldered shrug. "I'll be glad when we toast this jerk and move on," he admitted.

Dean gave him a lopsided grin. "What's wrong, Sammy? Is it all this beautiful sunshine, or the awesome company you're keeping that has got you down?"

Sam let out a small huff. "I'm not down," he replied. "Just thinking."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "About what?" he pressed gently. It usually didn't take much to get his brother to open up to him and share his thoughts. Despite Sam's denial, something was obviously bothering him, and Dean was determined to get to the bottom of it.

Sam shrugged again and looked away, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. "Just stuff," he replied, his gaze flickering over to where their father sat several feet away still engrossed in the map. "School stuff."

"School stuff?" Dean repeated, unable to hide the incredulity in his voice. "Sam, you just started your summer break. You're not _supposed_ to think about school stuff for the next three months!"

Sam didn't reply, refusing to meet Dean's gaze as he lifted a spoonful of beans to his mouth.

Dean slowly shook his head. "Just when I start to think you can't possibly get any geekier…" he muttered, pleased to see the slight blush that appeared on his brother's cheeks.

"I don't know, Dean," Sam retorted. "A nice, dry school with a cafeteria that serves pizza and burgers verses _this_…" he waved his hand in a wide gesture that seemed to include both their pathetic meal and the muddy road beyond. "Not so crazy in my mind."

Dean grunted but did not reply, partly because his brother had a point, and partly because he suddenly had a suspicion that Sam was referring to more than just their current predicament. He regarded his brother from the corner of his eye, thinking not for the first time about how much Sam had changed in the last several years. And not just in height, either. Somewhere along the line Sam had transformed from the little boy who had insisted on being let in on the family secret, to a quiet and sometimes despondent young man who seemed increasingly reluctant to go along with his family's chosen line of business. While Dean would be the first to admit that their life was anything but easy, Sam's increased moodiness and depression had him more than a little concerned. He kept telling himself that it was just a phase…that Sam would move past it, but with each passing month his brother seemed to be growing worse, not better.

Dean reminded himself that Sam was seventeen, and it was perfectly natural that he would prefer to spend his summer doing something other than work.

"Tell you what, Sammy," Dean broke the silent tension with a tone made purposefully light. "Once we finish with this job, I'll convince Dad to try and find us something somewhere fun. Maybe down in Florida, or California. We can hit the beaches together…get a nice tan…maybe pick up a few girls…?" He nudged his brother with his elbow, relieved when Sam returned his suggestive smile with a small grin of his own.

Across the camp John suddenly folded his map and tucked it away inside his coat pocket, rising and reaching for his duffel bag…a clear indication that their break was over and it was time to get back on the road.

"What's the point," Sam grumbled good-naturedly, tossing the remainder of his beans in the plastic shopping bag they were using for trash. "The girls don't seem to notice me much when _you're _around! I'm just the adorable kid brother."

Dean shook his head, putting on a mock frown of denial. "Not true!" he retorted. "What about that one chick that latched onto you last month up at Pastor Jim's? Melanie…or Melinda…or something?"

"Mellissa?" Sam asked incredulously. "She was like _fourteen_, Dean. _And_ she was cross-eyed!"

"She was cross-eyed?" Dean asked in pretend surprise, pushing himself to his feet and barely suppressing his laughter at the look of disgruntled outrage that crossed Sam's features.

He wasn't about to tell his brother that there had been quite a number of Pastor Jim's parishioners who had daughters absolutely smitten with the tall-if-somewhat-gangly youngest Winchester. If Sam would get his nose out of his books long enough, he might actually start noticing the increased female attention directed his way. Until then, Dean had no intention of filling him in.

He turned and offered his brother a hand up as their father called to them from the road. Sam continued to glare at him for a moment, then gave in with a sigh and allowed Dean to pull him to his feet.

"Time to get moving," Dean stated, pulling his duffel back over his shoulder. "With any luck, we can have this sucker salted and burned by tonight and be back into town for dinner tomorrow."

Sam sighed and rolled his eyes, hefting his own bag up onto his shoulder. "Since when have Winchesters ever had luck," he groused, kicking some mud from his boots as if to illustrate his point.

Dean merely shrugged and didn't answer.

* * *

It was midafternoon before they finally reached the river. They could hear it long before they could see it, a rushing, roaring noise that grew steadily louder until, upon rounding a final bend in the road, it came into view.

Beside Sam, Dean let out a low whistle.

The river looked angry. It was the only way Sam knew how to describe the sight before him. The steady rain throughout the day had caused the river to swell its banks, and white capped waves tumbled and rushed by in the racing current, sending out a constant spray that hung in the air over the river like a curtain of fog. The roar of the water was so loud that by the time they had reached the edge of the washed out bridge, they had to shout in order to hear each other.

"The other bridge is about a half-a-mile south," John told them, indicating a narrow trail branching away from the road and following the twisting path of the river. "Once we cross the river we'll be in this bastard's territory, so I want everyone armed and carrying salt at all times, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir," came both boys' automatic responses.

"But it's during the day," Sam added doubtfully. "Don't ghosts usually wait until night before coming out to play?"

John shrugged. "Most do," he acknowledged, "but if Jeremiah is possessing one of his animal friends, he might not need to wait for night. There's no point in taking any chances."

Sam nodded his understanding, and with a satisfied jerk of his chin, John led the way to the trail to begin their half-mile trek downstream. The path was only wide enough for them to walk in single file, so Sam took up position directly behind his father while Dean took up the rear. After fifteen minutes of walking, the trail began to slope gently upward, leading them up a short hill as the river continued to cut its way through the land below them.

At the top of the hill they spotted the entrance to the foot-bridge, and Sam couldn't help but shudder at the sight before them. The bridge looked like something straight from _Indiana Jones;_ _Temple of Doom_, with two thick ropes arching across the width of the river, supporting the wooden planks of a suspension bridge. The bridge hung a good ten feet above the river at the start, but gradually bowed down toward the surface of the river in a gentle arch before angling upward again toward the far bank. At the base of the arch, it looked like only a couple of feet separated the planks of the bridge from the swollen waters of the river.

"Well, this looks like fun," Dean muttered from beside Sam, his tone holding only a hint of sarcasm.

Sam swallowed hard and ran his gaze across the length of the bridge once more. It might have just been his imagination, or perhaps the rain playing tricks on his eyes, but it looked almost as though the bridge were listing slightly on the far side. He dashed rain from his eyes and squinted in an effort to see better, but the bridge still looked slightly _off_ to him.

"You're sure those rangers said this bridge was still passable?" Dean asked their father, also peering nervously across the expanse of the river toward the opposite bank.

"It was a week ago," John replied briskly, moving forward once more until he was standing at the entrance to the bridge.

"A week ago," Dean repeated under his breath, and Sam was certain his brother was thinking the same thing he was. "_Surely the bridge wouldn't have deteriorated much in just a week?"_

If John sensed the trepidation in his two boys, he chose to ignore it. "Dean, you go over first," he ordered. "As soon as you get to the other side get out your shot-gun and cover us. Ghosts seem to have the ability to sense it as soon as someone enters their territory, and I don't want to be a sitting duck if Jeremiah decides to show up. Sam, you'll go over next and I'll bring up the rear. Remember, from here on out we keep our guard up and our eyes open."

Sam was slightly surprised that their father was sending Dean over first, but upon reflection he realized it wasn't that unusual. For the last year, John had been steadily giving Dean more and more responsibility on hunts, placing him in leadership positions. It was more than just a test to see if Dean could handle himself. It was almost as if their father was preparing Dean for something...though Sam had yet to figure out what that could be.

Dean adjusted the pack on his back, squared his shoulders, and stepped to the edge of the bridge. Sam found himself holding his breath as his brother slowly made his way out onto the thin boards, the thick ropes gripped tightly in either hand. At first Dean moved slowly, testing every step, but as his confidence grew he began moving faster. By the time he had reached the lowest point of the arch, Sam was beginning to feel slightly lightheaded from lack of oxygen and forced himself to take a deep breath.

Moving up the far slope of the bridge, Dean suddenly stumbled as the wooden planks beneath him gave a sharp lurch. Sam saw his brother hurriedly shift his weight to the left as the bridge listed suddenly to the right. His breath caught in his throat, but Dean merely adjusted his balance and lunged across the final six feet of bridge to the opposite bank.

Sam's breathless sigh of relief was echoed by his father beside him. Dean flashed them a quick thumbs up from across the river, then lowered his bag from his shoulder and knelt to root through it for his shotgun.

"Alright, Sammy, your turn," John laid a hand on his youngest son's shoulder. "Watch the bridge on that far side…it doesn't look very steady."

Sam nodded, though he felt his father's warning was hardly needed. He was still trying to swallow his heart from where it had lodged somewhere in the back of his throat.

Taking a deep breath, he moved out onto the bridge, feeling the slight sway in the boards beneath his feet. He kept his eyes resolutely on the far side, the ropes sliding smoothly through his palms as he moved forward. As he reached the center of the bridge, he could actually feel the spray from the angry river below him, and couldn't help but glance down at the churning water below.

Lifting his eyes back up to the opposite bank, he saw his brother step up to the edge of the bridge, shotgun in one hand. Dean flashed him a quick, encouraging smile before beginning to turn away. Suddenly, Dean froze, his body stiffening as his gaze locked on something upstream. His eyes flashed back to Sam, and Sam could read the alarm in his brother's expression even as Dean shouted out a warning.

Sam tensed and quickly swung his head in the direction Dean had been looking, half expecting to see the ghost of Jeremiah Moulder floating down the river toward him. There was no ghost, but the sight that met his eyes sent his heart racing nonetheless. The broken and knotted trunk of a giant tree had been caught up in the roiling current of the river, and was currently twisting and spinning with terrifying speed directly toward him. Sam's eyes widened with the realization that the tree was mere seconds from reaching the lowest arch of the bridge. He turned and lunged forward, already knowing there was no way he would reach the opposite bank in time.

He heard his brother cry out his name a second before the tree slammed into the bridge with enough force to knock him from his feet. He crashed down onto the rough planks beneath him, his chin banging painfully against the wood as the bridge lurched and swayed violently beneath him. He looked up to see his brother drop his shotgun and take a step out onto the bridge, but a second later one of the support ropes broke with an audible snap, sending the right side of the bridge plummeting down toward the raging waters below.

Sam let out a yell as he began sliding from the bridge, his fingers reaching out to grasp desperately at the rough wooden planks. He managed to wedge his fingers between two of the boards just as his legs slipped from the bridge, leaving his booted feet dangling mere inches from the surface of the swollen river. The strap of his duffel bag slipped down his shoulder and onto his neck, the rough nylon cutting into the soft flesh of his throat. Sam gasped and choked, unable to release his tenuous hold on the bridge in order to loosen the strangling pressure of the strap. The heavy bag was weighing him down, and the muscles in his arms and shoulders were screaming in agony as he held on for dear life.

Sam knew he would not be able to hold on for long. Already the fingers he had wedged between the wooden planks were aching and cramping, and he could feel the slow tremor in the muscles of his arm. Even worse, he was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe past the cutting pressure of the strap against his windpipe, and sparkling flashes of light were beginning to dance across his vision. He knew he had a minute, perhaps less, before he lost his grip on the bridge and plunged into the violent waters below.

"Hold on, Sammy!"

The shouted order sounded from somewhere above him, far closer than he had expected, and he rolled his eyes upward, surprised to see Dean only a few feet away. His brother was working his way cautiously across the top of the upturned bridge, one arm looped securely around the remaining support rope, the tips of his booted feet inching along the top of the wooden planks.

Sam felt a wave of relief at the sight of his brother, followed just as quickly by a surge of fear. The broken bridge was still bucking and rocking wildly, and Sam knew the second support rope could give way at any time. If that happened, both brothers would be thrown to the angry mercy of the river below.

He wanted to shout at Dean to go back, to get to the safety of the shore before it was too late, but the strap around his neck made it difficult to breathe let alone speak. With no other option, he simply closed his eyes and held on; praying desperately that the bridge would hold and his brother would not fall.

A hand suddenly fisted in the material of his jacket at his shoulder, and his brother's voice sounded from directly above him. "Sam, reach up and grab the rope!"

Sam opened his eyes and looked up, unable to respond with anything but a miniscule shake of his head. He was wheezing harshly in an effort to pull air into his starving lungs, and knew he would never have the strength to hoist his body up to the guide rope.

Dean frowned, but then seemed to comprehend what the problem was. Still holding the support rope with one hand, he began rooting around in his jacket pocket, finally pulling out his pocket knife. Opening the blade with a flick of his wrist, he leaned back down and began carefully sawing at the strap of the duffel bag. What seemed like an eternity later, but was actually only about thirty seconds, the strap gave way, and Sam felt the duffel slide down his back and into the river. He pulled in several deep gulps of air, shaking in pure relief.

"Come on, Sammy! Grab the rope." Dean called again, his fist once again tangling in Sam's jacket.

Now that he was free from the weight of the duffel and could breathe properly again, Sam felt a renewed surge of strength sweep through his limbs. With Dean pulling at him, he managed to hoist his body upward far enough he could reach out with one hand and grasp the rope. After that, it was only a matter of maneuvering himself to the top of the bridge beside his brother.

"Come on," Dean called to him over the roar of the river. His brother released his jacket in order to get a more firm hold on the rope, and then began making his slow way back toward the shore.

Sam took several deep breaths before inching along after Dean. A quick glance behind showed him that the tree was still tangled up in the bridge, the persistent river current pulling and tugging at it so that the whole thing looked in danger of collapse at any moment. Swallowing hard, he picked up his pace as much as possible, his feet sliding along the top edge of the wooden planks.

It seemed to take forever, but eventually Dean leapt forward to the solid ground of the shore, then quickly turned and held out a hand to help pull Sam the last few feet to safety. It was none too soon, either. Sam's boot had barely left the bridge when the second support rope gave way with a snap, and what was left of the bridge plummeted down into the river. Sam stumbled forward, dropping to his knees, his eyes wide as he watched pieces of the bridge he had just been standing on drop into the swiftly flowing current and be swept away.

A heavy hand came to rest on his shoulder, and he glanced up into the concerned face of his brother. "You okay?" Dean asked softly, his gaze sweeping over Sam in a careful search for injury.

"Yeah," Sam answered, surprised at how hoarse his voice sounded. He raised a shaky hand to his neck, then cleared his throat and tried again. "Yeah, I'm alright…thanks to you."

Dean flashed him a quick grin, but Sam noticed the tightness in his eyes that gave clear indication that his brother was more than a little shaken over their close call. "What are big brothers for?" he answered simply, straightening to glance back out across the river.

Sam followed Dean's gaze, realizing a bit belatedly that their father was now trapped on the opposite bank. He could see John standing tense and anxious across the river, his hands cupped around his mouth as he attempted to shout across the water to his boys, but the noisy rush of the river was simply too great, and they were unable to make out what he was saying. Dean immediately began flashing hand signals, reverting to the silent form of communication their father had taught them long ago.

For his part, Sam didn't even attempt to follow the silent conversation, but simply slumped back against the wet earth, allowing his eyes to slide closed as he fought to still the shaking in his limbs. He concentrated on performing one of the many breathing exercises his father had taught him, trying to ignore the burning ache in his throat every time he pulled in a breath or swallowed. He was feeling much better by the time Dean called out to him, nudging his shoulder with his booted foot.

"Hey, nap time's over, Sammy. Time to get going."

Sam opened his eyes and pushed himself into a sitting position. "Where are we going?" he asked, wiping at the rain that had pooled on his face with a single swipe of his hand.

"We're carrying on as planned," Dean answered simply, stooping to retrieve his shotgun from where he had dropped it earlier.

"What about Dad?" Sam asked, glancing across the river in time to see his father's back disappearing in the thick underbrush lining the opposite bank.

"He's going to continue downriver and try to find another place to cross," Dean explained. "In the meantime, we're going to continue on to Jeremiah's cabin, find the bastard's bones, and torch them."

"Without Dad?" Sam asked, pushing himself clumsily to his feet, unable to deny the spike of apprehension that surged through him. He had never been on a hunt without his father before.

Dean cast him a slightly impatient glance as he knelt next to the duffel bag of weapons and pulled out the second shotgun. "_Yes_, without Dad, Sam," he replied shortly. "He'll join us if he can, but it's up to us now." He must have noticed the doubt on Sam's face, because he let out a long sigh. "It's a routine salt-and-burn, Sammy. We've done hundreds of these, so why don't you just relax." He tossed the shotgun to Sam who caught it one handed.

Sam sighed and reached for the handful of shells his brother held out, trying to force down his unease. Dean was right, not to mention that they didn't exactly have much of a choice. There was no apparent way to get back across the river, which meant that for the time being they were stuck. He didn't need to remind himself that they were now in Jeremiah's territory, and he realized he would much rather track down and put an end to the angry spirit than sit around and wait for the ghost to find them.

Loading two of the shells into the shotgun, he stuffed the remainder in his pocket and then gave Dean a stiff nod to indicate he was ready to go.

Dean returned the nod, then grabbed the strap of the duffel and swung it back over his shoulder. "Keep a sharp eye out," was all he said as he turned and began leading the way downriver.

* * *

Dean set a brisk pace as they followed the winding path of the river south. He remembered from his father's map that the point where the river branched was about six miles from where they had crossed. It was hard to tell with the sun hidden behind the thick layer of clouds, but he guessed that there was a little less than four hours of daylight left. Which meant they needed to move quickly if they were going to reach Jeremiah's cabin, locate his grave, dig up his remains, and salt and burn the bones before dark. He had no desire to tangle with the homicidal ghost after nightfall, when it seemed all things supernatural had the annoying tendency of becoming super strong, super fast, and super creepy.

Despite Dean's assurances to his brother, he had to admit…if only to himself…that he was feeling slightly apprehensive about being separated from their father. It wasn't that he didn't think he and his brother could handle Jeremiah on their own. They had both the weapons and the training to do it. It was just that the whole hunt seemed as though it had been cursed with misfortune from the beginning. First, the washed out road; then, the never ending rain; and finally, the whole fiasco at the bridge. If Dean actually believed in Fate, he might have started to think it had set itself against them.

He cast a surreptitious glance toward Sam where his brother walked beside and slightly behind him, his gun held across his shoulder, his eyes scanning the area to their right. He could see the red ring around Sam's throat where the duffel strap had rubbed the skin raw, and couldn't help but shudder at the physical reminder of his brother's too close call. The mental image of Sam hanging on by his fingertips above the raging waters of the river was seared into the back of his mind. The absolute terror of that moment had been so sharp and real that he was pretty sure he would have nightmares about it for some time to come. He didn't like to think about how close he had come to losing his brother. If he had been just a little slower in reaching Sam…

As if sensing Dean's scrutiny, Sam glanced over and caught his eye, offering a quick smile. His hand rose to finger the sensitive skin around his neck, as if he knew where Dean's thoughts had been.

"Think I'll get a scar?" he asked. "You always tell me chicks dig scars. I know you have to be telling the truth, because there's no other way to explain why the girls are always so into you."

Dean returned his brother's smile with a wide grin of his own. "You mean, no way besides my incredibly handsome face and charming charisma, of course? For a guy like me, Sammy, scars are just the icing on the cake."

And just like that the tension eased. They spent the next half hour arguing about girls before moving the discussion on to music, then movies, and finally comic super-heroes. The conversation was easy, the mood light, and both boys quickly relaxed, though they remained watchful for any sign of Jeremiah's spirit. For at least a little while, Dean was able to push his worry over his father, the discomfort from his soggy clothes, and the ache in his feet to the back of his mind.

A part of Dean realized that the easy banter between them probably wouldn't have happened if their father had been present. It had always been easier for Sam to relax and open up when it was just the two of them. When John was present, Sam always seemed tense and anxious; at war between the part of him that wanted to please and prove himself to his father and the part that chafed under John's strict rules and heavy handedness.

Dean saw the gulf between the two of them and was saddened by it. His family was the most important thing in the world to him, and it hurt to see the two people he loved more than anything constantly at odds. He tried to step into the gap whenever possible, but had to admit that constantly playing peacemaker was a wearying job. It almost felt like a betrayal to admit it, but it was so much easier when it was just him and Sam.

Three hours into their trek, the rainfall finally subsided to a slow drizzle, then eventually faded away entirely, though the sky was still thick with clouds. It was growing steadily darker, and Dean watched the river intently, hoping they would reach the spot where the river split before it grew too dark to see. If not, they would be forced to camp out for the night and continue on in the morning, something he was not very keen to do. He wanted this hunt over and done with as soon as possible.

"Hey Dean, do you ever wonder what you would like to be…I mean, what you would like to do with your life if you weren't a hunter?" Sam's question pulled Dean from his thoughts as they worked their way across the top of a steep ridge, the river cutting its way through a narrow ravine below them.

Dean spared a quick glance at his brother before dismissing the question with a shrug. "I'm always going to _be_ a hunter, Sam," he replied simply.

"But what if you weren't?" Sam persisted, moving forward to walk side by side with Dean. "What if we lived a normal life and didn't know about ghosts, or werewolves, or any other monsters? What would you do then?"

Dean frowned over at his brother, not sure he liked where the conversation was heading. "I don't know, Sammy. Monsters _are_ real and I _do_ know about them, so what's the point in pretending otherwise."

Sam made an impatient sound, his gaze scanning the tree-line to their right. "So you've never wondered what you would like to do with your life if you weren't hunting?" he asked, a hint of incredulity in his voice

"No," Dean answered truthfully. He had learned a long time ago that dreaming about something that could never be led only to heartache. He wished Sam would figure that out as well and learn to accept the life they lived. Honestly, it wasn't that bad. They got to travel all over the country and experience things that most people wouldn't even know to dream of. Sure, they might have more scars than anyone else their age, but Dean had learned that chicks really _did_ dig scars, so even that wasn't all bad. And at least they were together. For Dean, that was the most important thing.

"Come on, Dean," Sam pressed. "You can't think of anything you would like to do aside from hunting?"

Dean let out a long sigh, realizing that his brother wasn't going to let the topic die. Sam could be extremely persistent when he got his mind set on something, and it was obvious he wasn't going to leave this alone until he got some kind of satisfactory answer from his brother.

"I don't know," Dean repeated slowly, finally giving in. "I guess I could see myself working in some kind of garage or auto repair shop. Kinda like what Dad used to do."

"Really?" Sam asked, the incredulity back in his voice.

"Sure," Dean answered. "What's wrong with working in an auto shop?"

"Nothing," Sam replied quickly. A little_ too_ quickly. He must have realized it too, for he cast Dean a quick glance and hurried on. "I mean, it's fine and all, it's just not exactly a dream job, you know?

Dean let a wry smile turn up one corner of his mouth as he watched a large hawk slowly circle the air in front of them. "Well, in case you failed to notice, Geekboy, I'm not like you. I didn't exactly excel at school. 'Dream jobs' aren't really on the roster for grunts like me."

Sam immediately jumped to his defense. "But I think maybe you would have…you know, if things had been different. If we hadn't moved around so much, or if you didn't always have to worry about looking out for me…"

Dean rolled his eyes. The past was the past, and he disliked the "what ifs" and "should haves" just about as much as he did wishing for a future that could never be. He suddenly wished his brother would just drop the subject already.

"I think I would like to be a lawyer," Sam stated suddenly.

Dean let out a sharp bark of a laugh before a glance over at his brother's face told him Sam was being serious.

His jaw dropped, and it was his turn to sound incredulous. "Honestly? You would really want to be a blood-sucking lawyer? _That's_ your dream job?"

"Not all lawyers are bad, Dean," Sam retorted impatiently. "There are some really good ones too, and it's a nice, respectable job. You get to help people without shooting guns or stabbing things."

"But that's the best part about helping people," Dean replied, only half joking.

"I've heard Stanford is an excellent law-school," Sam went on as thought Dean hadn't spoken. "But they require top ACT grades just to be accepted, let alone get a scholarship."

Dean was watching Sam carefully now, noticing the slight flush his brother always got when talking about something he was passionate about. He had assumed that Sam's conversation was all hypothetical, but suddenly he was no longer sure. He stopped dead in his tracks, throwing out a hand to bring his brother to a halt as well, opening his mouth to demand that Sam explain what the hell he was talking about.

Before he could speak, however, a sudden flutter of motion in his peripheral vision caught his attention. He found himself reacting instinctively, reaching out to grab the collar of Sam's jacket and jerking his brother forward and down. Sam let out a shout of surprise, but Dean wasn't paying attention. No sooner had Sam hit the ground then the sharp talons of the hawk he had been watching earlier tore through the air where his brother's head had just been. In the same instant, the temperature dropped, a blanket of cold that settled over Dean like a shroud, causing his breath to come out in a heavy fog.

"What the…"

Sam didn't even get a chance to finish his exclamation before Dean raised his shotgun, pumped the barrel with one quick jerk of his wrist, and fired, sending a round of salt buckshot after the retreating bird. He saw the hawk jerk in mid-air, letting out a terrible screech before plummeting toward the earth to disappear in the thick trees to their right. As quickly as it had come, the blanket of cold air was gone.

"Dean..?" Sam was staring up at him with wide eyes from where he still knelt on the ground at Dean's feet.

Dean reached down and grabbed the front of his brother's shirt, hauling Sam bodily to his feet with one hand while he pumped the shotgun a second time with his other. "I think it is safe to say that Jeremiah knows we're here now," he grunted, his eyes scanning the tree line in the direction the hawk had disappeared.

"Do you think he'll be back?" Sam asked, pumping the stock of his own shotgun in preparation.

"Probably," Dean replied, sparing his brother a quick glance. "Let's get moving. I don't like how exposed we are up here."

Dean didn't wait for Sam's nod before turning and beginning a quick jog along the top of the ridge, his brother falling into step beside and slightly behind him. They ran for ten minutes, guns held at the ready and eyes constantly peeled for any sign of movement. Dean split his attention between warily watching the trees to his right and keeping an eye on the river for any sign of the split he knew had to be somewhere just ahead. Before them, he could see the ridge begin its slow decent back down toward the river, and he breathed out a short sigh of relief.

It was growing perceptibly darker, and though Dean still had no clear view of the sun through the persistent cloud cover, he knew that they were quickly running out of daylight. It would be nightfall soon, and they still hadn't even located Jeremiah's cabin, let alone his grave.

"Dean, down!"

At Sam's shout, instinct once again kicked in over rational thought, and Dean dropped to his knees almost before his brother had finished speaking. He heard the loud report of a shotgun and felt the hairs on the top of his head stir slightly as the blast blew over. His eyes flew to Sam, who was standing with his shotgun raised and steadied against his right shoulder.

"Jeremiah," Sam said simply by way of explanation, his eyes wide.

"Did you get him?" Dean asked, standing and bringing his own gun up, his eyes scanning around him wildly.

Sam shook his head. "He phased out just as I fired."

Dean nodded, was just opening his mouth to suggest they keep going, when Jeremiah appeared once more, this time directly between them. Dean didn't even get a chance to shout a warning to his brother before the spirit placed one hand on his chest and the other on Sam's and shoved.

Dean gasped and tightened his grip on his gun as he found himself stumbling backwards.

The push hadn't been that strong, and Dean was able to remain on his feet by quickly widening his stance and digging his heels into the loose soil of the ridge. Sam wasn't quite so lucky. Dean could see his brother struggling to find his balance, but a large rock caught at his right heel, and he went down hard, landing on his backside with a pained grunt.

Jeremiah phased out, then just as quickly reappeared, this time directly in front of Dean. For a moment Dean was looking straight into his face, and the cold fury and hatred in the spirit's eyes sent a spike of fear through him. He quickly brought his gun up and back, tucking it to his side as Jeremiah reached out and grabbed him by the shoulders. Dean fired from his waist, point blank into the spirit's stomach at the same time Jeremiah gave him a powerful shove. The spirit screamed and disappeared in a blast of air as the rock salt tore through him, but the damage had already been done.

Dean found himself flying backward once more, this time much more violently. He felt the skip of loose gravel and rock at his heels, and then suddenly, nothing. He had a moment of horrified realization that he had reached the edge of the ridge, and then he felt himself toppling backward, his arms wind-milling desperately at his sides in a futile attempt to right himself. But he couldn't fight gravity, and the tip of his right boot…the only part of him still connected with solid ground…slipped from the top of the ridge in a small rain of rock and pebbles.

He heard Sam scream his name, and then he was falling.

* * *

_Remember folks, killing me will not get the next chapter up sooner, but reviewing might. :)_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Thank you SOOO much to all of you who have reviewed and/or favorited this story. You are such an encouragement and inspiration for me. As a thanks, I am posting this chapter a day early. Hope you enjoy. Also, thanks to LADragon12, Sarah, and the other anonymous reviewers. Your comments are much appreciated! :)**_

_**Enjoy...**_

**Chapter 3**

It all happened so fast.

Sam guessed that little over thirty seconds could have passed from the moment he had first spotted the spirit of Jeremiah Moulder, to getting knocked on his rear, to hearing Dean's gun fire and looking up to see his brother flying through the air.

For a horrible second, he saw Dean teetering on the edge of the ridge, arms outstretched, gun somehow still miraculously clutched in one hand…and then with a single blink of an eye, he was gone."

"Dean!"

Sam wasn't even really aware of screaming his brother's name. He flung himself forward, both his gun and the spirit of Jeremiah completely forgotten in the horror of watching his brother fall. He reached the edge just in time to see Dean bounce and roll the last twenty yards down the steep incline before coming to rest in a motionless heap on the narrow stretch of bank at the base of the ridge.

"Dean!" Sam couldn't help but call out his brother's name again, his heart pounding so hard he thought for sure it was going to beat its way out of his chest. "No, no, no, no," he whispered, staring intently at his brother's limp form, mentally willing Dean to stir, to give him some kind of indication that he was okay. But Dean did not move, and from this far away it was impossible to make out the rise and fall of his brother's chest that would have at least reassured him that Dean was still alive.

"_Please…please be okay,"_ Sam thought desperately, his eyes searching the ridge frantically for some way to safely get down to his brother. The area immediately around Sam was far too steep to attempt to scale, but about a hundred yards further up the ridge he could see the ground angling downward, the slope leading down to the river far less sheer.

"Hang on, Dean," he muttered, forcing himself to his feet and grabbing his shotgun from the ground beside him. "I'm coming." Tearing his eyes from his brother's prone form, he took off down the ridge at a dead run, fear lending him speed. He knew Jeremiah could return at any moment, and the idea of his brother lying helpless and vulnerable at the base of the ridge was terrifying. Sam could only hope the spirit would assume Dean was out of the picture and come after him instead. His hand tightened on the grip of his gun, and he found himself almost wishing Jeremiah _would_ appear so he could blow the bastard full of rock-salt. Not a lasting solution, of course, but it would certainly make him feel slightly better.

He reached the angled portion of the ridge and began his hasty descent down toward the river, slipping and sliding in the wet earth, using the occasional stray bush or large boulder to help steady him. It seemed to take forever to reach the base of the slope, and with each passing minute the fear bubbling in his belly shifted more towards full out panic. He had no idea what to expect when he reached his brother, but his mind had no problem coming up with numerous morbid possibilities, each one more gruesome then the next. He tried to force the disturbing images from his thoughts by repeating "He's okay…he's going to be fine" over and over again under his breath, but he hadn't quite managed to convince himself by the time his booted feet finally hit the sandy bank of the river.

The deep gloom of late evening was quickly shifting toward full dark, and though Sam wanted to race down the shore as fast as his legs would carry him, he forced himself to slow down lest he accidently run right past his brother. His heart was still racing, making his chest ache and his breath come out in strangled gasps. The palm gripping his gun was slick and sweaty, and he kept biting his bottom lip between his teeth as his eyes searched each shadowy boulder or clump of brush he passed.

After what seemed like ages, he finally spotted the crumpled form of his brother, and he stumbled forward, unaware of the small cry that escaped his lips. Dean was lying on his side on the sandy ground, head turned to one side, one arm bent and tucked partially beneath him while the other rested near his head. As far as Sam could tell, he hadn't moved at all from where he had first landed.

Dropping to his knees beside his brother, Sam had to fight off the instinctive urge to pull Dean up off the ground and into his arms. But the rules of basic first aid had been drilled into his head from a young age, and he knew with the type of fall Dean had taken it would be dangerous to move him at all until he determined the extent of his injuries. So instead of grabbing his brother, he merely let one hand drop cautiously on his back while the other hand reached for the artery in his neck.

He felt the reassuring rise and fall of Dean's diaphragm at about the same moment he picked up the steady thump of his brother's pulse beneath his fingers. The wave of relief that swept over him was so strong that, had he not already been kneeling, his legs would have surely buckled. As it was, he felt his shoulders slump and his head bow as he let out a deep breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding.

"Thank you…" he breathed, unsure who he was talking to, but needing to give voice to the overwhelming sense of relief and gratitude he felt at finding his brother alive. He had no idea how badly Dean was injured, but as long as he was breathing and had a pulse, he had a chance, and that was all Sam needed at the moment.

"Dean," Sam called softly, reaching out and tapping his brother's cheek gently with one hand. "Dean, can you hear me?"

No response. Not so much as a groan.

Sam swallowed his disappointment, running his gaze up and down his brother's limp form for any obvious sign of injury. He knew he needed to do a more thorough examination, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to see anything in the growing dark.

A sudden idea hit him, and he began looking around for any sign of Dean's duffel bag. He spotted it lying about ten yards away and quickly rose to retrieve it. Bringing it back to his brother's side, he hastily unzipped it and began rooting around for the torch lantern he knew his father kept in there. He finally found it and drew it from the bag, wincing slightly when he saw the long crack running along its side. Mentally crossing his fingers, he flipped the switch at the base of the lantern, relieved when the small row of LED lights instantly flickered to life.

Placing the lantern near Dean's head, Sam couldn't help but wince as he looked down at his brother. What he had originally thought was a heavy smear of dirt down the left side of Dean's temple was actually blood. With the light from the lantern, Sam could trace the blood trail back up to a narrow cut high on his brother's forehead, just below his hairline. The cut was still oozing slightly, but Sam was more concerned with the lump beneath the injury, as well as the heavy bruising he could already see spreading down across his brother's forehead. He had no idea how bad the injury was, but he knew if he wasn't able to wake Dean soon that they would be in serious trouble. Head injuries were nothing to be played around with.

There was something disconcerting about the way the light from the lantern played across his brother's features, casting deep shadows around his eyes, while the rest of his face was bathed in an iridescent glow. It made Dean look far too pale…almost ghostlike, and Sam couldn't help the shudder that ran down his spine.

The thought of ghosts brought to mind their other problem - Jeremiah. Sam had no idea why the spirit had not reappeared to finish them off, but he knew he couldn't expect their luck to hold out indefinitely. He needed to be able to focus on his brother without fearing that Jeremiah would suddenly reappear and chuck him into the river when he wasn't looking.

"Hold on, Dean," Sam muttered, rummaging through the weapon's bag yet again before pulling out a small, one gallon portable gas tank. Instead of gas, however, this tank contained one gallon of pure salt. Sam quickly rose, and starting at the base of the ridge, began creating a wide ring of salt with Dean at its center.

Once finished with the salt ring, he returned to Dean's side, jerking slightly in surprise when he found his brother's eyes open and watching him. "Dean…hey, man," he greeted softly, dropping back down to his knees next to his brother, unable to hide the rush of emotion that swept through him at the sight of the familiar green eyes staring back at him.

Dean made a soft sound that might have been an attempt at a greeting or merely a groan, Sam wasn't sure which. He began to stir, his head lifting slightly from the sand, and Sam hurriedly placed a restraining hand on his back before his brother could move any further. "Easy, Dean," he cautioned. "Try not to move. You took quite a fall and I haven't had the chance to check you over yet."

Dean blinked up at him, then swallowed hard. "What…what happened?" he asked, his voice sounding like sandpaper, barely audible over the noise of the river behind them.

"Don't you remember," Sam asked, watching his brother's face closely. "Jeremiah tossed you off the edge of the ridge."

Dean stared back at him blankly, his face showing no indication he had any idea what Sam was talking about. Sam bit his bottom lip, trying hard to hide his worry. He knew head wounds could be unpredictable, causing all sorts of symptoms, not the least of which was memory loss. The fact that his brother was awake and talking was a good sign, and if that was all he got, he would take it gladly.

But in a moment his brother's gaze cleared, and Sam could see dawning comprehension. "Well," Dean muttered, his voice still sounding weak and gravely, "that wasn't very nice of him."

Sam let out a small huff of laughter, though the situation was anything _but_ funny. Still, his brother's typical reaction of handling a serious situation with wit and sarcasm was so very welcome at the moment, he couldn't help himself. "I guess the gut full of rock salt you gave him must have pissed him off," he replied lightly. "At least he hasn't reappeared since then. I put a ring of salt around us just in case, though."

"Good thinking," Dean muttered, still lying with one cheek pressed into the rocky sand of the bank.

"Do you have any pain in your neck or back?" Sam asked, anxious to get his brother into a more comfortable position, but hesitant to move him until he knew it wouldn't cause further injury.

Dean let out a small sigh, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. "Hard to tell," he whispered, forcing Sam to lean in close in order to hear him. "I pretty much hurt all over at the moment."

Sam winced in sympathy. "Okay, well can you feel all your limbs?" he asked, deciding to go a different route to find out what he needed to know. "Can you wiggle your fingers and toes for me?"

Very slowly the fingers of the hand next to Dean's head began to fold back until only the middle one remained. Sam grinned down at his brother. "Now your toes," he ordered, choosing to ignore the silent insult.

Dean gave him a bland look, but a moment later his face twisted into a grimace, and a soft sound of pain escaped his lips.

"Dean, what is it?" Sam asked worriedly, leaning close.

"My right foot," Dean gasped, his face still tightly clenched against the pain.

Sam grabbed the lantern and moved it down Dean's body so he could get a better look at his brother's leg. He grimaced at what he saw. Dean's right foot was twisted at an odd angle, the toe of his boot pointing in a direction that shouldn't have been possible from the position of his leg. Sam felt his stomach clench at the sight, and he quickly brought his gaze back to Dean's face.

"Sorry man, but I think your ankle's broken," he delivered the bad news to his brother.

Dean accepted the diagnosis with a small grunt, his eyes drifting closed once more in a way that worried Sam. "Hey," Sam called, and then when that received no response, "Dean!" in a louder, more persistent voice.

At his shout, Dean's eyes slid open once more, but far too slowly for Sam's liking, as though his brother was fighting off a drug or alcohol induced slumber. "Stay with me, man," Sam urged, moving the light back up near his brother's face, fighting to keep the fear out of his voice. "I think you have a concussion, Dean. You have to try and stay awake, okay?"

Dean gave a slight nod, then pulled his other hand free from under his body and began to slowly push himself over onto his back, careful not to move his injured leg. Sam hovered over him worriedly, still not certain that his brother should be moving, but relieved that he seemed to have full use of his limbs, thus reducing the likelihood of a spinal cord injury.

Once Dean was on his back, he lay for a few moments, breathing heavily, his face a mask of pain. Sam pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. He felt a mixture of worry and relief when Dean eventually began to struggle to sit up, and he hurried to help. Grabbing Dean's shoulders he lifted his brother up slightly with one hand while he pushed the duffel bag behind his brother's back with the other. It wasn't the most comfortable thing to lean against, but at least Dean wouldn't have to expend the energy necessary to sit upright on his own.

Dean collapsed back against the bag gratefully, his breathing ragged, his face even paler in the harsh light of the lamp.

"You okay?" Sam asked quietly, already knowing the answer, but unable to help himself from asking anyway.

Dean let out a short grunt, one hand snaking around to hug his ribs, his features strained. "I'll be alright."

Sam might have been more inclined to believe him if Dean hadn't chosen that moment to twist his upper torso sideways and promptly vomit all over the sand. Sam watched helplessly as his brother's body shook with the force of the heaves, any doubt he had about Dean having a concussion disappearing with each convulsion. He placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, silently offering the only support he could.

Once Dean had brought himself back under control, Sam rose and moved around his brother to carefully kick sand over the pile of sick. There was no way he was going to try and move Dean, and he didn't want the smell to trigger another round of heaving from his already weakened and battered sibling. When he had finished with that task, he moved to the duffel and unclipped his brother's water bottle from the side. Dean had his eyes closed, his arm still wrapped protectively around his chest, his breathing harsh. Sam touched him lightly on the shoulder, and when Dean opened his eyes, he offered the water bottle. Dean took it gratefully, spitting out the first mouth-full before taking several deep swallows.

Sam watched him carefully and waited until Dean had lowered the bottle before speaking. "Okay, broken ankle and cracked skull aside, what else hurts…and don't try to give me that 'I'm fine' crap, either, because I'm not buying it."

Dean grimaced up at him, and for a moment Sam was certain his brother was going to be stubborn, but then his shoulders slumped slightly, and he let out a long sigh. "Mostly I just feel banged up," he admitted tiredly, grimacing as he shifted slightly in an effort to find a more comfortable position against the bag, "like I went one too many rounds with Mr. T. My ribs are a little sore, but not bad enough that I think they're broken. Earlier exclusions aside, I don't think anything else is seriously damaged."

Sam let out a noncommittal grunt and reached for the buttons on his brother's jacket. He saw Dean's wrist twitch and half expected his brother to try and push his hands away, but surprisingly Dean remained still and cooperative. "_Crap, he must really be hurting!"_

Sam pushed the edges of the jacket aside and reached for the hem of Dean's shirt. He carefully lifted the material up, bringing the light closer so he could get a good look at his brother's torso. He kept his expression carefully neutral, but inwardly he winced at the myriad of splotchy bruises and scrapes that painted his brother's flesh an impressive canopy of red, black, and blue. He pressed his fingers gently against his brother's ribs, receiving a slight flinch in response. Deciding to trust Dean's judgment and refrain from causing him any further pain, Sam carefully lowered the shirt once more.

"Well, _doctor, _think I'll live?" Dean asked, the hint of sarcasm unmistakable.

Sam gave him a level look. "Probably," he responded shortly. "That is, unless you keep annoying me…," he trailed off, letting the empty threat hang in the air.

Dean blinked at him in surprise, then gave him a small grin. "Now that's just cruel, …threatening a man when he's down. You need to work on your bedside manner a bit, Nurse Nancy."

Sam felt some of the tension knotted in his stomach ease slightly, despite the fact that his brother's easy banter contained only half of its normal spark. He knew Dean had to be hurting badly, but as long as he was making even a modicum attempt at joking, it meant he was coping. He knew from past experience that it was when Dean grew silent and complacent that he needed to worry.

"Your head is still bleeding," Sam pointed out, artfully steering the subject back to the matter at hand. "Probably could use some stitches, but since Dad has the med kit…" he trailed off, his shoulders slumping slightly in frustration.

Without their medical bag, he was extremely limited in what he could do to help his brother. No bandages, no antiseptic, no needle and thread…he didn't even have any painkillers he could offer Dean. In addition, their dad also had their spare change of clothes. Both of them were completely soaked through from a day walking in the rain, and with the onset of night, he knew it was going to get cold. With Dean's injuries, he was worried about the possibility of his brother going into shock.

And there wasn't a single thing he could do about any of it.

Rising to his feet, he quickly turned away to face the river, biting his lip as he clenched his fists at his side. He couldn't ever remember feeling quite this helpless…this inadequate. His brother needed him, and Sam couldn't help but be afraid that he wouldn't be up to the task.

* * *

Dean watched Sam silently, not really liking the tense set of his brother's shoulders or the tightness of his stance. It wasn't difficult for him to guess at what Sam was thinking, and he let out a soft sigh. He found it amazing that Sam, who was basically a genius, who excelled at everything he did, always seemed to have trouble doubting himself.

"Sam." He said the name quietly, but with enough emphasis to immediately draw Sam's attention back to him. He looked onto his brother's hazel eyes and forced a reassuring smile. "It's going to be okay," he said softly, a gentle emphasis on each word. "You're doing just fine."

Sam stared back at him for a moment, his expression unreadable, though his eyes still held a hint of doubt. Eventually he tore his gaze away, glancing quickly toward the river and swallowing hard before turning to kneel by Dean's side once more.

"I think there's some holy water in the duffel," he said slowly, his brain obviously kicking back into gear. "I'll use that to clean out the cut…better than using up our drinking water. I also saw Dad put some fresh rags in there for cleaning the guns. I can use those as bandages."

Dean gave him a small smile. "Sounds like you have a plan," he replied lightly. He pulled himself upright long enough for Sam to grab the holy water and a small handful of rags from the bag, then settled himself back down, unable to suppress a low groan.

His whole body throbbed with pain, but the fierce ache in his temple and the stabbing agony shooting up his leg from his broken ankle were by far the worst. Part of him wanted nothing more than to lay his head back, close his eyes, and succumb to the comfortable oblivion of unconsciousness, but he knew that would be a bad idea.

At least his stomach seemed to be done with its attempt to exit his body through his mouth, though he still felt dizzy and a little nauseous. He had been told by more than one doctor that the effects of a concussion resembled a really bad hangover, but having experienced both, Dean would have taken the hangover any day of the week.

"Okay, try to hold still," Sam murmured as he finished soaking one of the rags in holy water and set about gently cleaning the blood and dirt from the gash on Dean's forehead. Dean sat silent and still through the process, working on keeping his breathing even and steady. When he had finished cleaning the wound, Sam folded another cloth into a small pad and pressed it firmly against the cut. Dean let out a small grunt, but otherwise did not react to the bandage being put into place. Using his pocket knife, Sam cut a long strip from around the bottom of his t-shirt, then used the cloth to bind the makeshift bandage in place. Once done, he sat back on his heels to admire his handiwork.

"Do I look like the karate kid?" Dean asked wryly, lifting one hand to touch the edge of the bandage wrapped around his head.

Sam reached out and batted his hand away. "Don't touch it," he ordered. "And if you're talking about the scene where he gets his ass kicked by the Cobra Kai gang, then yeah…I can definitely see the resemblance."

Dean opened his mouth to retort, but a sudden shudder ran the length of his body, and the resulting wave of pain from his broken ankle had him crying out instead. He quickly clamped his jaw shut on the cry, squeezing his eyes closed as he fought against the ferocious stabs of agony.

"Dean?" He heard the worry in Sam's voice, but for the moment was unable to respond, too caught up in the battle to get his battered body back under control. He felt Sam shift closer, and a second later his brother's hand came to rest on his shoulder. Dean used the contact as an anchor, forcing all his attention on the steady pressure as he fought to bring his breathing back under control.

He had no idea how long it took…it could have been one minute or five minutes…but eventually the stabbing pain receded back to a sharp ache and he was able to open his eyes and unclench his jaw. He looked up into his brother's anxious face and tried to pull off a reassuring smile, but the muscles in his face didn't seem to be cooperating.

"Is it your ankle?" Sam asked softly, his voice filled with concern, but also containing an underlying note of fear. He glanced down toward the offending appendage, then quickly pulled his gaze back up to Dean's face. This time there was no denying the edge of panic in his expression. "I think I'm going to have to set the bone, Dean," he said slowly, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip in a way he adopted when extremely nervous.

Dean merely nodded, not yet trusting his voice. His stomach clenched painfully at the thought of Sam even touching his ankle let alone popping the bone back in place, but he knew it needed to be done. If left too long, the displaced bone could cut off circulation to his foot, thus causing even greater damage. Still, knowing the reason behind the necessity didn't make him dread it any less. Crap but this was going to hurt! A lot!

Surprisingly, Sam looked as frightened by the prospect of setting the bone as Dean felt. He was staring down at Dean with barely concealed dread, his eyes wide and his face pale. "I've never set a bone before," he whispered, swallowing hard. "What if I hurt you worse?"

"You won't," Dean replied, his voice sounding stronger than he felt. He had always been able to push his own fear aside to calm and reassure his brother, and this time was no different. He felt his stomach settle as he reached up to clasp Sam's wrist where it still rested on his shoulder. "Just remember to hold the leg steady and whatever you do, do it quickly. You'll do fine."

Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath, but when he opened them again a second later there was new resolve shining there. He gave Dean's shoulder one more squeeze, which Dean returned with the hand still clasping Sam's wrist, and then both brothers let go.

Sam grabbed the torch lantern and moved it down to set at Dean's feet, his eyes already focused on the new task at hand. "I've got to get your boot off before I can do anything," he stated, glancing up at Dean quickly. "Do I cut it off or would you prefer me to use the laces?"

"Cut it," Dean answered shortly, unable to stomach the thought of Sam tugging at his laces in order to loosen them. Any way he looked at it, this was going to suck, and he allowed himself a single moment of longing for the small vile of morphine tucked away in the medical kit. Normally he wasn't a fan of the drug, since it made him more than a little loopy, but at the moment he would have been willing to forgo a bit of dignity if it meant taking the edge off the pain he knew was coming.

They kept their pocket knives sharp, but even so, it took Sam a while to cut through the thick leather of the boot. Dean chose not to watch his brother work, but rested his head back against the duffel and kept his eyes firmly closed, focusing on keeping his breathing even and steady. He knew Sam was being as careful as possible, but even the slightest jostle of his mangled limb set waves of pain up his leg that had him wanting to cry out. He refused to allow any sounds of discomfort to pass from his lips, however, knowing it would only serve to distract and upset his brother. Instead, he clenched his teeth together so firmly that he felt the muscles along his jaw twitch and cramp from the pressure.

By the time Sam had gently removed his boot and sock, Dean's breathing had turned ragged and his whole body was bathed in a cold, clammy sweat. His stomach was twisting and churning violently, and he wondered if he was about to be sick again…not that he had anything left in his stomach to throw up. He was seriously considering asking his brother to hit him to knock him out…concussion be damned.

Sam glanced up for the first time from his inspection of Dean's foot, and when he caught sight of Dean's face, he swore softly.

"It's okay," Dean grated out, his jaw aching from his effort not to cry out. "Just get it done!" The last thing he needed at the moment was Sam hesitating for fear of causing him more pain. He was already awash in a sea of agony, and just wanted the whole thing done and over with. At the moment he didn't think the pain could get much worse than it already was.

Of course, he was wrong.

Sam gave a brief nod, his expression tense, then turned back to Dean's ankle. He felt his brother's hand grip his right leg, right above the break, while his other hand firmly closed around the pad of Dean's foot. "Okay, on the count of three…" he said. "One, two,…"

Dean never heard the third count. Pain more intense than he had ever felt shot up his leg, and he swore he felt the grate of bone on bone before his ankle snapped back into place with a small pop. This time there was no holding back the scream of agony that ripped from his throat, and he felt his whole body arch upward, his hands digging deep grooves through the sand at his sides. His lungs seemed to forget how to draw in air, and he felt the betraying sting of tears fill his eyes.

He must have lost consciousness for a moment, for the next thing he became aware of was Sam leaning over him, grasping his shoulders and shouting his name, his voice containing a hint of panic. Dean wanted nothing more than to give in to the welcoming darkness and float away into oblivion, but he couldn't ignore the fear in Sam's voice. With what felt like a monumental effort he dragged in a deep lung full of air…it felt like the first in a long time…and forced open his heavy lids.

"Dean?" Sam was still gripping his shoulders, his face showing a mixture of relief and concern as he stared down at him. "Come on, talk to me, man."

Dean swallowed, his throat feeling raw and sore. "I'm okay," he managed, his voice barely over a whisper. "It feels a little better now." And strangely enough, it was the truth. The fiery agony that had consumed his leg only moments before was steadily fading to a throbbing ache that, while not exactly comfortable, was certainly better than the alternative. He lifted his head and peered down toward his feet, relieved to see that the toes of his right foot were at least pointing in the correct direction now.

Sam released him and collapsed down onto the sand next to him, his shoulders hunched, his hands coming up to grip the hair on either side of his head. "Let's not ever do that again," he muttered, his voice so low Dean nearly missed it over the steady rumble of the river fifteen feet away.

"Agreed," Dean sighed, allowing his head to fall back against the top of the duffel. He felt weary to the bone, the persistent pain throughout his body robbing him of all his strength and energy. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and go to sleep, but he knew that wasn't going to happen…not until they were sure the crack to his skull hadn't scrambled his eggs.

He glanced over at his brother, watching as Sam stared out silently toward the river, a contemplative look on his face. He let the silence stretch on, knowing Sam was working something out in that overly large brain of his, and would tell him what he was thinking soon enough.

Without warning, Sam suddenly rose, his eyes still locked on the river. "I have an idea," he stated simply. Reaching down he grabbed up his shotgun and the torch lantern in one hand, then turned and headed down toward the river, stepping carefully over the line of salt and throwing a careless "I'll be right back" over his shoulder.

For a moment, Dean was too surprised to say anything, but as the lantern bobbed away down the stretch of bank, he felt a surge of fear come over him. He knew Jeremiah could be somewhere out there in the darkness, watching and waiting, and now that Sam was out of the protection of the circle of salt, he would be easy prey.

"Sam!" he shouted, shifting further upright against the duffel, ignoring the spark of pain the movement ignited in his head and ankle. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Get back here, now!"

He knew his brother had to have heard him, but Sam did not reply and continued to move farther away toward the river. Dean swore, and then began glancing around him in a desperate search for his own shotgun. He remembered having it when he'd been thrown from the ridge, but guessed that he'd lost it somewhere on the way down. There was no sign of it, and with another sharp oath, he turned his attention back toward his brother.

Sam had reached the river, and in the small pool of light cast by the torch lantern Dean could see him kneeling at the water's edge. It looked almost as though he was digging a hole, and Dean felt his consternation growing as the minutes slowly slipped past. What on earth did his brother think he was doing? _If he gets himself hurt, I'll kill him!_

After what seemed like ages, Sam rose, the edge of his shirt pulled up to cradle something. His brother grabbed up the lantern and gun and began making his way back toward Dean. As he drew closer, Dean could see the look of triumphant excitement on his face, and with effort he bit back the scathing tongue lashing he had been preparing.

"Decide to go digging for treasure?" he asked instead, as Sam stepped back into the protective circle of salt. He didn't bother to hide the annoyance in his voice, but if Sam noticed he gave no sign.

"I found it," he stated proudly, dropping down next to Dean's leg.

Dean frowned. "You found what…treasure?" he asked, now feeling more confused than angry. For a moment, he wondered if Sam was the one suffering from a concussion instead of him.

Sam didn't answer, but instead dug into the folds of his shirt and brought out a handful of what looked like dark gray mud. Without preamble he reached out and carefully deposited the wet pile directly on Dean's injured ankle, smoothing it out with soft, gentle strokes.

Dean felt his eyes widen. _What the hell? _"Uh, Sam" he began slowly, "why are you putting mud all over my ankle?"

Sam glanced up at him, a huge smile splitting his face. "It's not mud," he replied smugly. "It's clay." When Dean only blinked at him in continued confusion, he hurried to explain. "Clay is a lot thicker than mud and will dry much stronger. It might not be as good as a cast, but once it sets it will provide support and protection, and in the meantime it will hopefully help with the swelling and inflammation."

"Huh." Dean let out a small grunt, eyeing his brother incredulously. "Where do you learn all this crap, Sammy?"

Sam shrugged, turning back to Dean's ankle and removing another glob of clay from his shirt. "One of my fifth grade teachers took our class on a field trip to the river," he explained, smearing the clay on the opposite side of Dean's ankle. "She had us dig up clay and then make little figurines for our art show. I remembered how sturdy they were once the clay had set. I wasn't sure if there would be any here, but I thought it was worth a try."

Dean could only shake his head, but as Sam continued to lather his ankle with the wet clay he had to admit that the cooling sensation was helping to ease some of the ache. A minute later Sam rose, reaching for the shotgun once more. "I'm going to need some more," he declared, already turning to head back down to the river.

"Wait!" Dean shouted, drawing his brother up short. He held his hand out, wiggling his fingers. "Give me the gun," he ordered. "You can't dig and watch out for Jeremiah at the same time. I can cover you better from up here."

Sam hesitated, but Dean kept his hand outstretched expectantly, and his brother finally gave in with a shrug, handing over the shotgun. "Are you sure you can see straight enough to aim," he asked, grabbing up the lantern.

It was Dean's turn to shrug, and he gave his brother a reckless grin. "That's the good thing about these guns, Sammy…I only have to get close."

Sam looked far from relieved. "Yeah, just remember that I'll be down range as well," he muttered. "The rock salt might not kill me, but I'd rather not find out how much it hurts if it can be avoided."

"Ye of little faith," Dean replied, gripping the gun firmly and pulling it tight against his shoulder.

Sam rolled his eyes but made no reply as he turned and began heading back down toward the river. Despite his attempt to make light of the situation, Dean could feel his tension grow the further away his brother moved, and his grip tightened on the stock of the gun. He scanned the darkness intently, watching for any sign of movement, uncomfortable with how exposed Sam was in the small pool of light cast by the lantern. His worry turned out to be for nothing, however, as Sam soon returned with another shirt full of clay, his second trip having been as uneventful as the first.

"Almost done," Sam muttered a few minutes later, smoothing the last handful of clay over Dean's ankle. "One more trip and we should be set."

Dean frowned, but chose not to argue as Sam rose and headed down to the river yet again. He kept the shotgun tucked tight against his shoulder, barrel directed at a point slightly downriver from his brother. His ribs ached and throbbed from the effort of keeping the heavy gun raised, but he pushed down his discomfort and fought to keep the weapon steady.

Sam was in the middle of digging in the mud when the blanket of cold swept over Dean, chilling his blood and turning his breath to mist.

"Sam!" he shouted, every muscle tensing.

His brother must have felt the cold too, for he instantly rose and turned to hurry back toward the circle of salt. Dean saw a flicker of air directly behind his brother and shouted out a warning. Without turning, Sam flung himself forward, leaping over the line of salt and nearly tumbling into Dean's lap.

"Move," Dean barked, shifting his body to the right in order to see around his brother. Sam twisted out of his way, and Dean's gaze immediately located Jeremiah, standing calmly a few feet outside the salt ring. Without hesitating, Dean raised the gun and fired, but Jeremiah flickered and vanished a split second before the salt passed through the space he had just been occupying.

Dean swore, but a moment later the spirit reappeared, this time to Dean's left. Ignoring the pain, Dean twisted his body and pulled the trigger a second time, but a dull click was the only result.

"Sam, shells," Dean snapped, releasing the gun with one hand and holding it out, palm up, toward his brother. From the corner of his eye he could see Sam scrambling in his pocket for the spare shells.

"Trespassers," Jeremiah hissed, his voice sounding like water hitting a hot pan. "Murderers! You are not welcome here. You must leave!"

"Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you," Dean ground out, grabbing the shells Sam thrust into his hand and quickly reloading the gun. "This is a private party, pal, and you're not invited."

"Leave now or die," Jeremiah repeated, then flickered and disappeared before Dean could lift the gun and pull the trigger. As quickly as it had come, the blanket of cold was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

_So sorry this is a day late. I just totally forgot to update last night. Anyway, thank you so much to all of you who reviewed last chapter. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. Hope you enjoy this next chapter…._

**Chapter 4**

"Phew, that was close."

Dean pulled his gaze away from the spot where Jeremiah had just vanished to glare up at his brother. "No, that was stupid," he retorted hotly, his lingering worry making his voice harsh. When Sam merely glanced down at him and shrugged, he added, "I'm serious, Sam. You could have gotten yourself killed."

Sam let out a long sigh. "But I didn't," he replied evenly. "I'm okay, Dean, and I got what I needed." He indicated the glob of clay he had somehow miraculously managed to keep rolled up in the bottom of his t-shirt

"Yeah, well that had better be it, because you are _not_ going back out there," Dean replied shortly, relieved when Sam nodded his agreement. Dean watched as his brother knelt beside his injured leg and carefully smeared the final handfuls of wet clay around his ankle and foot, his movements slow and gentle. The cool dampness of the clay was soothing against Dean's swollen flesh, and though the throbbing pain was far from gone, it definitely felt better than it had.

"You'll want to keep from moving it as much as possible until it has a chance to dry," Sam instructed, finishing with the clay and moving up to sit cross legged next to Dean. He reached for one of the spare rags he had pulled from the bag and began wiping his fingers clean of the excess clay.

Dean nodded, though he thought the order was hardly necessary. He had no intention of moving his injured ankle until he absolutely had to, as even the smallest twitch was enough to send a flare of agony up his leg. He glanced over at his brother's bent head, unable to stop the small smile that twitched at the corners of his mouth at the sight of Sam picking meticulously at the mud underneath his fingernails. They might be stranded in the middle of nowhere, spending the night on a lonely stretch of riverbank…but, by golly, Sam was going to have clean fingernails. It was so typical of his little brother, that Dean couldn't hold back a small bark of laughter, despite the pain it sent across his injured ribs.

Sam glanced up at him, arching a questioning eyebrow.

Instead of pointing out his brother's obsessive compulsive tendencies, Dean merely shook his head and said softly, "Thanks, Sammy. The clay was a good idea. My ankle already feels much better."

Sam shrugged, quickly looking back down at his lap, but not before Dean caught a glimpse of his pleased flush. "It was nothing," he replied quietly, his fingers returning to their picking.

Dean shook his head, feeling a flash of pride at how well Sam was handling this whole situation. There were moments when he found it hard to see the young man that Sam had become instead of the smart-mouthed little kid he had taught how to ride a bike, but tonight was definitely not one of those times. Sam had more than proved his worth today, and Dean was not above giving credit where credit was due. "You did a good job," he persisted. "Not just the clay, but everything. My ass would have been toast if it weren't for you."

Sam continued to pick at his fingernails for a moment before glancing up and giving Dean a small smile. "What are little brothers for?" he replied, throwing Dean's earlier words back at him.

Dean returned Sam's grin with one of his own. "Yeah, well, just don't make a habit of it, alright? I might think you're trying to take over my job."

"Don't make a habit of getting thrown off a cliff, and we have a deal," Sam retorted, tossing his rag aside and shifting so he was sitting next to Dean against the large duffel, settling back with a small sigh as he stretched his long legs out in front of him.

Dean snorted. "I think I could agree to that," he answered dryly, turning away to eye the inky darkness surrounding their small circle of protection.

Sam followed his brother's gaze, frowning slightly. "Why do you think he left?" he asked quietly, turning the conversation back to the matter at hand.

Dean shrugged before casting his brother a quick glance. "Who knows," he replied, tightening his grip on the gun across his lap. "My guess is this is the first time he's encountered someone with a weapon that can actually hurt him. Maybe it's _spooked_ him."

Sam merely rolled his eyes at Dean's weak attempt at humor. "Yeah, well, as soon as he realizes we're ignoring his 'get out or get dead' warning, he'll be back. And he'll probably be pissed."

Dean nodded. "Probably," he replied simply, before a sudden thought had him sitting up straighter, pushing his aching body upright. "Sammy, grab one of the hand guns from the bag. One with real bullets," he ordered, leaning forward to give Sam access to the bag.

Sam gave him a questioning look, and Dean quickly explained. "Jeremiah might decide to come back and pay us a visit inside the body of one of his 'pets.' I'm not sure the rock salt would do it for him in that case. Better to be safe than sorry…I don't really fancy the idea of becoming cat chow during the night."

Sam's face paled slightly, and he cast a quick glance out at the night before hurrying to comply with Dean's order. "You want your Colt?" he asked, rooting around in the bag in search of the guns and ammunition.

"Nah," Dean answered. "The shotgun will be fine for now. You actually have to _aim_ the Colt."

Sam cast him a sympathetic look. "Still seeing double?" he asked, pulling out his own 9mm handgun and setting it on his lap.

Dean gave a noncommittal grunt, shifting back against the duffel with a relieved sigh. "Not too bad," he replied, "but I think I'll leave the precision shooting to you for tonight." He glanced over at his brother, hoping Sam would understand the unstated 'I trust you' in his statement.

Sam gave a determined nod, then set about loading and checking his gun with a swiftness and efficiency that had Dean once again marveling at how grown up Sam really was. When he was finished, he laid the gun careful across the top of his thighs, then leaned back against the edge of the duffel, stretching his arms out above his head and letting out a huge yawn.

"Careful," Dean warned seriously. "You yawn any harder, and you might just swallow your face."

His brother made a face at him, and Dean grinned. Sam really did look tired, and he knew his brother had to be worn out by their long day's trek, not to mention their multiple run-ins with Jeremiah the homicidal ghost. It looked like it was going to be a long night, with an even longer day to look forward to ahead of them.

"You should try to get some rest, Sammy," he suggested, fingering the stock of the shotgun across his lap. "I can wake you up if our antisocial friend decides to make reappearance."

The look Sam shot him was incredulous. "You gotta be kidding me," he huffed. "You seriously want me to just lie back and go to sleep and let my injured brother stay up all night standing guard over me?"

"Technically I'm sitting," Dean replied, "and why not? It only takes one person to keep watch, and I can't sleep right now anyway." He reached up and tapped at the side of the bandage wrapped around his head. "Head wound, remember. I sleep now and I might wake up thinking my name's Sally, or whatever other crap doctors think will happen if you sleep too soon after hitting your noggin."

It wasn't entirely the truth. Dean had suffered through enough concussions to know that this one was mild, if anything. He wasn't slurring his words, his vision wasn't _that_ bad, and aside from his earlier episode of sickness, he wasn't feeling nauseous anymore. Still, the pounding headache, coupled with the rest of the aches and pains from his battered body would keep him from sleeping even if he wanted to, and there was no reason Sam had to stay up too. His brother needed to be rested and alert to face whatever remaining challenges awaited them this hunt.

Sam, however, didn't seem to agree. He was shaking his head forcefully, his mouth pulled down in a frown. "No way," he stated flatly. "I'm not really all that tired anyway." As if in direct contradiction to his words, he raised one hand to rub at his left eye in a way that made Dean achingly recall a three year old Sammy proclaiming that "He was not tired," and "He didn't _want_ to go to bed." Back then, all Dean had to do was climb into bed with his little brother and read him books until he fell asleep. Now, he had to admit that there was absolutely nothing he could do to force Sam to sleep if his brother didn't want to.

"Fine," he stated, shifting to try and find a more comfortable position against the lumpy pack. "Why don't you tell me more about your dreams of being a lawyer, then? I knew I shouldn't have let you watch that Matlock marathon last month." Dean wasn't sure what made him choose this particular subject, considering only a few hours ago he'd been anxious to avoid it. Still, something was bothering him, niggling at the back of his mind, and he couldn't let it rest until he figured out what it was.

The look Sam shot him was almost guilty, and his brother quickly dropped his eyes, his hands fiddling with the gun on his lap. "It's nothing," he muttered. "Just something I've thought about a little."

_More than a little_, Dean thought. A week ago he'd been woken up in the middle of the night by Sam tossing restlessly beside him, muttering something about ACT's and needing to 'get out.' Seeing as Sam had been spending every free moment holed up in the nearest library studying for the upcoming test, Dean had assumed his brother was suffering from a simple matter of overexposure. He'd amused himself with mental images of Sam dreaming of being locked in a library with ACT study books surrounding him and closing in.

Now, however, Dean wondered if he hadn't been completely off the mark to begin with. Maybe it wasn't the ACT that Sam was trying to escape from at all, but rather the means _to_ escape. It was a disconcerting thought, with all sorts of potential repercussions, and Dean wasn't sure he was quite ready to face it. Still, he found himself pushing forward, prodding his brother for some sort of clue that he was on the right track. Sam had always been an open book to him, and the idea that his little brother might be hiding something from him didn't sit well with him.

"You really think you would like to be a lawyer," he pressed, staring hard at the downturned profile of his brother's face.

Sam shrugged, still not looking at him. "Sure," he muttered. "Like I said before, you get to help people, but without all the traveling, and weirdness and danger. I think it would be fun."

"Maybe for a while," Dean replied lightly, "but then you'd get bored and start missing the thrill of the hunt."

Sam glanced up at him, something unreadable flashing across his expression. "I don't think I would," he replied softly, almost sadly, the absolute conviction in his tone slicing through Dean like a knife.

Dean swallowed hard, staring back at his brother until Sam dropped his gaze once more. He felt a sinking sensation enter the pit of his stomach as realization slowly dawned. "You really hate this life that much, Sammy?" He asked softly, afraid to hear the answer he already was beginning to suspect.

Sam let out a deep sigh, his eyes still fixed resolutely on his lap. A few minutes passed before he finally spoke. "We never have a place to call home, never stay in the same place for more than a few months. We're constantly on the road…constantly hunting. We don't have any friends our own age, we're self-condemned outcasts of society, never fitting in, never understood. We scam, lie, and cheat in order to make a living, stay in cheap hotels with smelly sheets and eat food that will kill us before we're thirty. We collect hospital bracelets like most people collect shot glasses, and the worst part of it all is for us it is all completely _normal._" Sam lifted his head to meet Dean's gaze, his expression earnest. "We're always hunting, Dean. And when we're not hunting, Dad has us training to hunt. Can you really blame me for wanting something different…for wanting something _more?" _His tone held an odd combination of challenge and a plea for understanding.

Dean stared back at him, for the moment at a complete loss for words. It wasn't like he had never heard the complaints before…he _had_…multiple times. But he'd always managed to dismiss his brother's discontent as mere teenage moodiness…a phase Sam would eventually outgrow. He hadn't seen…or allowed himself to see…just how deeply Sam's unhappiness went. The realization of it now was worse than a punch to the gut.

Though he couldn't explain it, on some deep level Dean felt as though he was losing his brother, as though Sam was slowly slipping away. It was a ridiculous feeling, and he did his best to ignore it, but he couldn't deny the clenching fear that filled his belly. He wanted Sam to be happy, but if he were completely honest with himself he knew it went deeper than that. He wanted Sam to be happy _here_…in _this_ life…_hunting. _But the truth was, Sam wasn't, and perhaps he never had been.

He opened his mouth to say something, then just as quickly closed it again. He wanted to argue with Sam…to point out how important their job was, all the good they were doing. He wanted to mention that they faced in one day more excitement and adventure than most people experienced in a lifetime. He wanted to remind Sam of all the wonderful places they had seen on their travels, of all the people they had met…all the people they had helped. There was good along with the bad, and he wished Sam could just _see_ it!

The words stuck in his throat, however, and he couldn't bring himself to say them. He knew it was what Sam was expecting…for Dean to argue with him. It certainly would've been what would have happened if it were John in Dean's place. His father would've told Sam to buck it up…to accept the life fate had dealt them and to do his job. In the end, he guessed that was what all their recent fighting was about anyway. Sam was trying to tell his father how he felt without actually saying the words, and John was refusing to hear it. Just as Dean had refused to see it, though all the signs had been right there in front of him, obvious.

He had always prided himself in being able to read Sam fairly well, but in this one area he had purposefully blinded himself, unable to deal with the truth.

Sam was watching him expectantly, a small frown burrowing lines in his forehead. Dean had no idea what to say to his brother…he was still trying to absorb everything, to understand all the possible implications. He was tired, hurting, and frustrated, and a part of him realized this was definitely _not _the time to talk about this. They would just end up arguing, and Dean simply didn't have enough energy for that at the moment. So instead of answering his brother's question, he employed a classic Winchester coping mechanism; deflection.

Tearing his gaze away from Sam, he leaned back against the bag and stared out across the dark expanse of the river. "I wonder how Dad's holding up, tonight." He mused softly, hoping Sam would accept the redirect and wouldn't try to push the issue.

There were a few beats of silence before Sam let out a small sigh, whether from relief or disappointment, Dean was unsure. "He's probably all snug and warm in a fresh change of clothes wolfing down our portion of dinner along with his own." Sam replied dryly, one hand lifting to rub longingly across his stomach.

Dean smiled slightly. In all honesty, he was hurting far too much to be hungry, but he guessed Sammy must be feeling ravenous. The teenager was in a growth spurt…_again_…and Dean knew he had only picked at his food at lunch.

"Tell you what, kiddo," he said, letting his head fall back against the rough canvas of the bag behind him. "When we get back to town, I'll buy you the biggest chef's salad this side of the Continental Divide."

"Ah, don't," Sam objected, moaning in misery. "You're just making it worse."

* * *

He watched them from the darkness, keeping far enough away that they would not sense his presence. With every passing moment, his hatred and rage grew, until he desired nothing more than to sweep in and tear these intruders…these trespassers…limb from limb.

Only instinct held him back. He sensed that these men were not like the others. Their weapons could actually hurt him…something he had not been expecting. They had created a barrier around themselves he could not cross, and unlike those who had come before, they did not act terrified of his presence. All of these things caused him to hesitate, cautious in a way he had never been before. He somehow knew that these men were dangerous…not only to the animals he had sworn to protect, but to him personally.

And so he watched, silent and still, the hours of the night slowly slipping by. Eventually he left his hiding place, his spirit drifting on the breeze to the top of the ridge, his conscious mind reaching out to search his surroundings for the one who would help him be rid of these menaces once and for all.

He finally sensed her, far away to the north, almost at the edge of his territory. With one final glance down toward the men below him, he closed his eyes and willed his spirit to her, his ethereal body flickering out of existence only to appear once more miles away in the center of a small clearing.

The mountain lion sensed his presence immediately, rising from where she lay a few yards before him, her lips pulled back in a quiet snarl of warning.

He watched her calmly, his eyes hungrily sweeping over her lean and muscled body, admiring her strength and grace. She was his favorite of all his animal companions, and he never tired of looking at her. The control he exerted over her was strong enough that he no longer always had to possess her body in order to make her do as he desired. Sometimes all it took was a look…a single thought. Still, he never felt more alive than when he allowed his essence to mesh with hers, the heady sense of power and strength he felt whenever he possessed her more intoxicating than anything he had ever experienced…dead or alive.

She watched him warily, her golden eyes glowing slightly in the night as she waited to see what he would do. She did not attempt to run, having learned long ago that she could not escape him. After taking a few moments to enjoy the view of her, he drifted closer, reaching out a hand to lay against her giant head. She let out a low growl, but did not resist him as he melded his body against hers, slowly sinking inward, through fur, muscle and sinew. The strong beat of her heart resonated through his senses, and he became aware of her on a whole new level. Every sensation, every instinct, every fleeting thought was his to experience, and he reveled in the feeling.

When she was firmly within his control, he turned her to the south and pushed her into a slow jog. He was still several hours away from where he had left the intruders, and dawn was quickly approaching. He usually did his best to avoid daylight, as it left him weakened and sapped of power, but in possession of the great cat, he did not fear it as he otherwise would. He would find the men who so brazenly dared to trespass in his territory, and before the day was over, he would feel their blood hot on his tongue.

* * *

_Sorry, this chapter is a bit shorter than the others, but it was just a good place to end it. More from Sam's POV coming up, and more trouble for both boys. Hope you enjoyed!_


	5. Chapter 5

_**I hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving. This chapter would have been up yesterday, but I was traveling. **_

_**Anyway, I wanted to give a HUGE thanks to everyone who has put this story on their favorite's list, and especially to those who have reviewed. Your comments mean so much to me, and I can't tell you enough how much I appreciate it!**_

_**A very astute reviewer pointed out to me that my use of the term "wildcat" is technically incorrect. A true wildcat is pretty small and not even native to the U.S.A. With that being said, I lived for several years in the Rocky Mountains, and we had a lot of mountain lions in the area. People would often refer to them as "wild cats" which is where I got the term. It is these animals that I am referring to. I apologize for any confusion, and have gone back and made some changes to the wording in earlier chapters that will hopefully help clear this up.**_

_**Now, without further ado…**_

**Chapter 5**

Sam was relieved when the first hint of light lit the eastern horizon, marking the approach of dawn. It had been a long and uncomfortable night, the air just cool enough to leave them feeling stiff and chilled in their still damp clothes. The weapon's bag was lumpy and hard against their backs, and the exhaustion of a long day and night without rest sat heavily on their shoulders. Several times Sam had felt himself nodding off, despite his discomfort, and he had been forced to stand up and walk around the small confines of their campsite in order to wake up. Each time Dean had urged him to go ahead and get some sleep, but Sam had resolutely refused. If Dean wasn't going to sleep, then neither would he.

For his part, Dean had passed the night quietly and without complaint, the occasional soft groan or hiss of discomfort the only clue to the pain he had to be in. He had been uncharacteristically quiet, his eyes distant and thoughtful, and several times Sam had felt him watching him intently, as though afraid he might disappear.

Sam had a pretty good idea what was bothering his brother, and as much as he itched to talk to Dean about it, he didn't bring it up. Dean had made it pretty clear that he did _not_ want to talk about it, and Sam chose to honor his brother's wishes. Dean was pretty smart, and Sam was sure if his brother hadn't already figured out his intentions to leave the family business and go to college, he would soon enough. He longed to ask his brother what he thought about it, but was too afraid…the whole reason he had never told Dean in the first place. What his brother thought _mattered_ to him, and he was afraid Dean would only try to talk him out of his plan.

Pushing himself to his feet, he stretched, groaning at the pull of stiff and achy muscles. He rolled his head back and forth to ease the tension in his neck, all the while aware of Dean silently watching him from the ground. In the dim light of the morning, his brother looked even worse than he had the night before, the dark smudges beneath his eyes in sharp contrast to his pale features.

"Well," Sam began, forcing a cheerfulness that he didn't feel into his voice. "I'd offer you breakfast in bed, but unfortunately Dad has all the food, so I can only offer you left-overs from supper last night."

Dean squinted up at him, his brow furrowing. "We didn't have supper last night," he grumbled, his voice rough and husky from lack of sleep.

"Exactly," Sam replied, reaching down and grabbing the water bottle instead, holding it out to his brother.

Dean sighed and took it, squirting a thick stream into his mouth and swirling it around before swallowing. "It's fine," he mumbled, "don't think I'd be able to keep anything down anyway."

Sam frowned at this small admission to exactly how poorly his brother was feeling. He reached out and quickly laid the back of his hand against Dean's forehead, beneath the bandage, but in the few seconds of contact before his hand was smacked away he didn't feel a fever. "Head still bothering you?" he guessed, his voice sympathetic.

Dean merely grunted, neither confirming nor denying Sam's assumption, but Sam noticed he was holding his arm tight to his side and guessed that perhaps it was Dean's ribs that were giving him the trouble this morning. He knew better than to ask, though. Getting his brother to admit hurt was harder than pulling teeth on a cranky crocodile…and just about as dangerous. Dean could suffer a paper cut and whine for days, but chop off one of his legs and he'd clam up and pretend he was just fine. It was one of the many attributes of his brother that Sam just couldn't quite figure out.

"Dean, I've been thinking," Sam began, deciding that there was no point prolonging the inevitable.

"Uh oh," Dean grunted.

Ignoring his brother, Sam pushed on, "We need to take care of Jeremiah quickly, before he decides to come back and finish the job he started. Since you're obviously not going anywhere, I thought I would go ahead and head upriver and see if I can locate the cabin. It shouldn't take me more than a couple of hours to find his bones, torch them, and get back here. Then we can focus on getting you out of here without worrying about Jeremiah breathing down our backs."

"No." Dean said the single world flatly, firmly…his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. Sam had heard his dad use the same tone of voice before, usually when Sam's incessant questioning and arguing had reached a point where the elder Winchester refused to tolerate it anymore.

"Dean…" Sam began, but his brother didn't let him finish.

"I agree that Jeremiah needs to be taken out…and the sooner the better." Dean said. "But there is absolutely no way in hell you are going after the bastard alone."

Sam sighed. He'd been expecting this, though how his brother could argue against inevitable logic he wasn't sure. "Dean, you said yourself when we got separated from Dad; it's a routine salt-and-burn. I can handle it. We don't exactly have a choice here."

"Yes, we do," his brother retorted.

"What? Just sit around here and hope Dad eventually gets across the river and finds us?" Sam asked, growing impatient. "Dean, I…"

"No," Dean interrupted. "I don't think we should sit around and wait for Dad. I think we should finish the task he gave us. _Both_ of us…together."

Sam blinked at his brother before slowly shaking his head. When he spoke, his voice came out more harsh than he intended. "You fell off a cliff, Dean. Do you remember that? You probably have a concussion, your body's beat to hell, and…oh yeah, your ankle is broken! You can't possibly expect…"

"I'm fine," Dean interrupted sharply, the tightening in his jaw showing his own rising frustration. "Dad gave us a task to finish, and I plan on finishing it, even if I have to _crawl_ the entire way there!"

"Seriously, Dean?" Sam snapped, his temper getting the best of him. "That's just stupid! Are you really that desperate to please him?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth Sam wanted them back, but it was too late.

In the blink of an eye Dean's face became expressionless. "This has nothing to do with Dad," he stated evenly. "This is our job…our responsibility, and it's not something you can just throw off lightly. We don't get to quit as soon as it gets difficult, or if we're tired or hurting, or we just don't like it anymore. People's lives are at stake, Sammy, and if you would just quit daydreaming about some fantasy life and _accept_ that, then things would be a hell of a lot easier!" A muscle jumped in Dean's jaw, the only outward sign of the storm that was brewing within.

Sam recoiled slightly at his brother's words, hurt and anger flaring within. He felt a sharp retort hot on his lips, but forcefully choked it back, tearing his gaze away from Dean and staring out toward the river, his hands clenched into fists at his side. After their conversation the previous night, Sam had dared to allow himself the hope that Dean might actually understand…that perhaps his brother might even support him. Now he realized just how foolish that hope had been, and the disappointment that rose up in him at the realization was bitter. Of course Dean didn't understand. How could he? He was _nothing_ like Sam. He didn't hate this life they had been forced into. If anything, he _enjoyed_ it…craved the adventure and action it offered.

He had no idea how the conversation had digressed to this level, but he knew if he didn't try to steer it back to the issue at hand, it might only get worse. He turned back to his brother, fighting to keep his tone even and calm, with no hint of the bitter anger currently boiling in his veins.

"I didn't say anything about giving up the hunt, Dean. I _know_ we need to finish this. I just don't think you should come along. I can finish this without you…or don't you trust me?" He didn't bother hiding the hurt he felt at this last statement.

Dean let out a long sigh, one hand running down his face. "I do trust you, Sam. I do," he added a little more firmly when Sam raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "It's just that this whole hunt has been screwed up from the start. Bad things keep happening, and I can't shake the feeling that when we go to end this, things are going to blow up in our faces. I can't have you take this on by yourself, Sammy…I can't. I might not be good for much more than shooting a gun, but at least I can watch your back."

Sam stared at his brother, uncertainty making him hesitant. Dean had a bad habit of pushing himself to his limit and then well beyond, his pride and stubbornness refusing to let him quit when most others would have long since given up. It was part of what made him such a good hunter, but Sam also worried it would end up getting his brother killed someday.

Still, Dean did have a point. The thought of going on alone was more than a little daunting. It wasn't that he didn't think he had the skills and training necessary to finish this, it was just that he would feel a whole lot better if he had someone watching his back in case things got hairy. And, current anger at his brother aside, there was no one he would rather have watching his back than Dean, injured or not.

"Are you sure you're up for this?" he couldn't help but ask, even though he already knew what the answer would be.

Dean gave him a cocky grin, the effect only slightly diminished by his still too pale features and bandaged head. "You know the Winchester motto: we take a lickin' and keep on tickin'." His smile faded slightly, and he continued on much more seriously. "I can do this Sammy. Jeremiah's cabin can't be much more than half-a-mile further downstream. That clay stuff you put on my ankle will help a lot, and we can use the duck-tape in the bag to secure my boot back in place, which will help even more. I might not be up to running a cross country race, but I can definitely handle a half-mile. And if it makes you feel better, when we get there, I'll just sit on my ass and let you do all the work."

Sam snorted. "You'd probably do that anyway," he huffed, still uncertain but ready to admit defeat. Dean was stubborn enough that if Sam insisted on going on his own, his brother would just try to follow him anyway. Sam would much rather they stick together. Dean might insist that he could manage, but Sam knew that walking even a short distance on the broken ankle was going to be pure hell. His brother was going to need all the help he could give.

With a defeated sigh he reached into the duffel bag and began rooting around in search of the tape. Ignoring the look of triumph on his brother's face when he pulled it out, he moved down to Dean's ankle and reached for the discarded boot. Moving quickly but as gently as possible, he pulled the boot back into place over the clay cast and began wrapping it securely with the duck-tape.

Dean didn't say anything as Sam worked, and Sam remained silent as well. A fine air of tension still rested between them, so unlike the casual camaraderie they had shared the previous afternoon. Sam's throat ached with all the things he wanted to say, but he swallowed them down, knowing this was not the time or place.

* * *

As soon as Sam had finished securing Dean's boot, he glanced up, his gaze not quite meeting his brother's. "Ready to go?" he asked simply.

Dean nodded, then asked, "My gun?"

Sam frowned, then quickly nodded in understanding. He rose and walked away toward the base of the ridge, his eyes scanning back and forth in search of the dropped weapon.

Dean waited until he had moved away before closing his eyes and drawing in a deep breath. Despite his assurances to his brother, he knew this was going to be difficult. He hurt…a lot. His ankle throbbed with a fierce, persistent pain, his head ached abominably, and he didn't think there was a portion of his body that didn't feel bruised and sore. Still, if there was one thing he had gotten fairly good at over the years, it was hiding his pain. Usually it was to put on a strong front for his brother, but this time it was more to convince Sam that he was up to this…that he was well enough to play his part. His brother had agreed to bring him along, but he knew Sam could change his mind in a heartbeat if he suspected Dean was not up to the task. If that happened, there was honestly very little that Dean could do to stop him from leaving, and that knowledge scared him more than a little. He would gladly walk a mile on _two _broken ankles rather than let his brother take on Jeremiah alone.

By the time Sam returned, shotgun in hand, Dean's face was a careful mask of calm readiness. He watched as his brother stored the gun in the duffel bag…to be inspected for damage at a later date…and began gathering up the few items they had laying around. Once the duffel was packed, Sam slung it over his right shoulder, grabbed the second shotgun, then moved to stand over Dean, hand extended.

Taking a final, steadying breath, Dean grasped his brother's forearm and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. He had been prepared for the pain, but the sudden rush of dizziness and nausea that assailed him had him reaching out desperately for Sam. He fisted one hand in his brother's jacket while his eyes slid closed and he focused all his energy on remaining upright and not throwing up.

Dean was unsure how long he stood there, breathing deeply and fighting his traitorous body. By the time the dizziness had receded enough that he thought it was safe to open his eyes, he discovered that Sam had moved in close beside him, one hand wrapped around Dean's waist to help support him. His brother was watching him with concern, a deep frown creasing two lines between his eyebrows. He opened his mouth to speak, but Dean hurriedly cut him off.

"I'm okay, Sam. Just got a little lightheaded. Guess I've been sitting on my ass too long." He tried to give his brother a reassuring grin, but from the look on Sam's face, he knew his brother was far from convinced.

"You're white as a sheet," Sam commented sharply, "Are you sure you're not going to pass out on me?"

_No_. Dean clenched his jaw. "Yes, Sam, I'm sure. Now if you're done standing around, maybe we can get a move on." It was childish and immature, but he would rather have his brother annoyed at him than concerned and possibly rethinking his decision to bring Dean along.

Sam's face tightened, and he muttered something under his breath that sounded like "stubborn ass." He moved to stand at Dean's right side, hunching down slightly so that Dean could sling an arm over his shoulder. Then, with Sam's arm wrapped firmly around his waist, they began to make their slow way downriver.

Every step was torture, and it didn't take long for Dean to realize that the half-mile he had spoken of so dismissively to his brother was going to be a lot more difficult than he had imagined. He sincerely hoped his calculations where correct, because if not, he had serious doubts that he would make it. Even with Sam taking most of the weight on the right side, his ankle sent piercing flames of agony up his leg with every step.

Dean clenched his teeth and pushed on, determined not to give Sam any reason to doubt him. He kept up a persistent mantra within his head…_left, right, left, right, left, right_…and forced his legs to follow the steady pattern. He kept his eyes resolutely ahead, trusting his brother for the time being to keep an eye out for any approaching danger. He picked out a landmark in front of him…an old and twisted tree trunk washed up on the river's shore about fifty yards downstream…and focused all his mind on simply reaching it. By the time they made it to the tree, Dean was already winded and sweaty, but he resolutely pushed his discomfort aside and focused on the next landmark to set as his goal.

The minutes slowly ticked by as the steep wall of the ridge to their right gave way to an open field of grass dotted by thick patches of trees. He was so focused on the simple task of putting one foot in front of the other, that at first he didn't take much notice of the silence between his brother and him. Eventually the quiet began to weigh on him, however, and he found himself yearning for the distraction of conversation. Yesterday they had talked almost non-stop as they traveled, laughing and joking amongst themselves, and Dean missed the easy interaction.

He hated the tension he sensed between them. He knew Sam had been hurt by his comment, but he couldn't bring himself to apologize. To apologize would be like admitting he was wrong, and he wasn't ready to do that yet. He wasn't sure he _was_ wrong. He understood Sam's reasoning…he really did, but that didn't mean he agreed with it. Sure their life was rough, but Dean had managed to get past all the bad and see the good that lay beneath, to accept that their life was never meant to be normal. He just wished Sam could do the same.

"Look," Sam voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he followed his brother's pointing finger to see the split in the river they had been searching for. He breathed a silent sigh of relief, grateful that they wouldn't have much farther to go. Jeremiah's cabin should be somewhere nearby.

Knowing their destination was near, both boys became more alert, their eyes constantly scanning the surrounding area for any sign of danger. Remembering the previous evening, Dean kept his eyes on the sky as well, but all was quiet. Aside from a few squirrels rustling around in the underbrush and a swarm of insects buzzing through the air in front of them, there were no other signs of life. Dean wasn't sure whether he should be reassured by this fact, or worried by it.

Sam was the first to spot the cabin. He pointed it out to Dean, who couldn't help the small grunt of relief that slipped from his lips. The cabin was nestled deep in a large copse of trees about a hundred yards from the edge of the river. It was tiny, really more of a hut, and they might have missed it altogether amongst the giant trunks of the trees if they hadn't been looking so carefully for it.

As they drew near, Dean realized exactly how run down the small cabin was. All the windows had been broken out, and the front door was missing altogether. The roof was sagging heavily in the middle, and vegetation grew up thickly around the base of the structure. A quick peek inside showed them a single room, completely empty but for piles of dirt and leaves scattered across the rough wooden floor. The whole place stank of rot and decay, and Dean screwed his nose up in disgust.

"Now for the fun part," he grunted, "finding where they buried the bastard."

As it turned out, finding Jeremiah's grave was easier than either of them had expected. Circling the cabin, they saw a rough-hewn wooden cross pounded into the ground only a few yards away from the edge of the hut. The cross was simple and bore no markings, but Dean had no doubt that it belonged to Jeremiah.

"Jackpot," Sam muttered. "Time to end this."

* * *

Sam paused his shoveling to wipe sweat from his eyes, inwardly cursing the flimsy camp shovel he was forced to use to dig up Jeremiah's remains. He reached out and grabbed the water bottle sitting next to the waist deep hole he had dug, squirting the last of the water into his mouth. Grimacing at the luke warm liquid, he tossed the empty bottle away, before letting his gaze drift over to his brother.

Dean sat ten feet away, his back against the edge of the cabin, Sam's shotgun gripped tightly across his lap. He looked weak and pale, and there was no disguising the pain in his eyes, but his features were set in a determined line as he steadily perused the trees surrounding them.

As Sam watched him, he felt some of the frustration he had been carrying with him all morning fade. He had never been able to stay upset with Dean very long…especially when his brother was injured and hurting but still stubbornly determined to fulfill his self-assigned role of guardian and protector for his little brother. Sam was used to his brother's protective behavior, and though at times he felt annoyed and smothered by it, most of the time he just appreciated it. It was nice knowing that you always had someone watching your back...especially in their line of work.

Not for the first time, Sam wondered what it would be like when he left to go to college. He would be without his brother for the first time in his life, and he would be lying if he didn't admit the thought sent a little spike of fear through his gut.

Despite their differences and the seemingly ever present tension between them, Sam knew he would miss his father. But he also knew it would be nothing compared to losing Dean. After all, he was used to his father being gone for long periods of time, but his brother was an entirely different matter. Dean had _always_ been there, as close as Sam's own shadow, and he knew it would take some adjustment to get used to him not being constantly around.

The tragedy of their past, their screwed up childhood, and their current line of work all combined to create a bond between them that was anything _but_ normal. Yet of all the things about their past that Sam regretted, that bond was not one of them. As much as Dean might annoy and frustrate him at times, he was the one person Sam knew he could rely on beyond all others. No matter what different paths their lives might take them down, he took comfort knowing that would never change.

As if sensing his brother's scrutiny, Dean glanced in his direction, arching one smooth eyebrow. "Tired already?" he asked, his lip twitching up in a small smirk. "Need me to take over?"

Sam let out an incredulous snort before shaking his head and returning his mind to the task at hand, digging his shovel down into the soft earth. "No sign of our ghostly friend yet, eh?" he asked, tossing a shovelful of dirt out onto the growing mound beside the grave. He realized somewhat belatedly that he had been giving his brother the silent treatment all morning, and he felt a flash of remorse.

"Not yet," Dean answered simply, his eyes returning to his scan of the area. "Maybe Dad was wrong. Maybe he can't come out during the daytime."

Sam grunted. "He attacked last night before full dark," he pointed out, hauling out another shovelful of dirt.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, "but it was dusk, and with all the cloud cover it was already pretty dark. Maybe he can't stand the full daylight." Despite his earlier words of concern, Dean's tone was hopeful.

Sam glanced up at the burning ball of the sun sitting almost directly overhead and prayed his brother was correct. They were due some luck on this hunt.

He continued to work on in silence under his brother's watchful guard, his body moving in a smooth rhythm that gave truth to much practice. He wondered with wry amusement what the reaction would be if he listed 'grave digging' as a useful skill on his college application paperwork. He could place it right next to 'Latin exorcisms.'

His shovel hit something hard. Sam paused, then bent and brushed aside a layer of dirt, revealing a fragment of bleached white bone. "It think I found him," he called out, brushing aside more dirt and uncovering more of the skeleton, along with dried out pieces of crumbling cloth. "He wasn't even in casket. Just looks like he was wrapped in some old blanket or something."

"Figures," Dean replied. "From what I could gather, the guy didn't exactly have many friends. I doubt anyone was keen to step forward and offer to pay for a proper burial."

Sam shook his head. "At least they got him deep enough to keep the wild animals from digging him up," he muttered. If that had happened, they would have had no hope of locating all of him.

Sam continued working on shoveling out the last layer of dirt from atop the skeleton. When he had finished, he crawled from the grave and reached for the duffel bag, pulling out the jug of salt and small container of lighter fluid. Spreading both liberally over the bones, he dug out the lighter from his pocket and positioned his thumb over the rollbar. It was time to put an end to this disastrous hunt.

The mountain lion came out of nowhere. There was no sound to give away its approach, no tingling sense of impending doom to alert them of its presence. One moment they were alone, and the next the sleek gold body of the cat was leaping from the trees and straight toward them, its movements impossibly quick and graceful.

Sam had only an instant of shocked disbelief before the animal launched itself into the air, muzzle pulled back in a rictus snarl. He heard his brother's shout of warning at the same moment the loud report of the shotgun echoed around the small clearing, but then the mountain lion's body was slamming into him, driving him back against the side of the cabin. The rotted wood let out a sharp crack and then gave way, and he found himself falling backwards into the cabin's musty interior, the snarling feline still on top of him.

"Dean!" he cried, his hands rising instinctively to protect his face and throat. He felt a searing, tearing sensation across his upper arm and down his left side, and couldn't hold back his scream of pain.

He bucked his hips upward and twisted to the side, throwing the cat off balance and buying himself a few extra seconds. It wasn't enough though. His hand had just dived into his coat pocket in search of the handgun he had placed there earlier, when he felt the hot breath of the mountain lion wash over his face. He heard a low growl, and almost against his will his gaze snapped up to lock with the strange, milk white orbs of the animal poised over him.

He froze, his hand clenched around the butt of the gun, his muscles refusing to obey the simplest of commands. He knew in that moment that he was going to die, but strangely enough, it was not terror that he felt wash over him, but regret.

The cat opened its mouth, let out a coughing scream, and then dipped its powerful jaws down toward the exposed throat of its latest victim.


	6. Chapter 6

_Thank you for all who reviewed and/or put this story on their favorite list! You guys sure know how to make a girl feel awesome! On another note; What did you think of the mid-season finale? I think I am still whimpering..._

_Thanks again to my beta, firstcatfish (she has a couple of wonderful short stories you should check out). _

_Please forgive any medical errors...not a doctor, though I sure could use the income of a doctor. *sigh*_

**Chapter 6**

The cat was fast!

Dean barely had time to register this fact before the golden blur had launched itself into the air…straight toward where his brother stood, unarmed and helpless.

Dean shouted wordlessly in alarm, bringing the gun in his lap up and around even as he realized he would never get it aimed in time. His finger tightened on the trigger, and he fired anyway, hoping the loud noise would at least serve to distract the beast.

The cat didn't so much as flinch, and a moment later it landed atop his brother, sending Sam stumbling backward against the cabin. With a loud crack, the struggling pair crashed through the rotted wood and disappeared from view.

_Shit!_

Without thought to his own injuries, Dean pushed himself up off the ground and toward the hole in the wall where his brother had just vanished. His damaged ankle threatened to give out on him with every step, but with iron determination Dean forced himself forward in a stumbling run, gun still gripped tightly in one hand.

He heard his brother cry out his name, followed almost immediately by a scream of pain, and he pushed himself even faster. _No, no, no, no. Not Sammy. God, please not Sammy!_

He spun around the gaping hole in the wall, his eyes frantically searching out his brother. He froze for a terrified second when he caught sight of Sam buried beneath a mountain of fur and muscle that was the mountain lion. The giant cat opened its mouth and let out a coughing scream, and the sound was enough to pull Dean from his stupor.

Without hesitation he raised the shotgun and fired, knowing there was a chance that some of the buck shot of salt might hit his brother, but aware that it was Sam's only chance. Even as he pulled the trigger he saw the cat's mouth dropping toward Sam's throat, and he let out a scream of fear and anger that was drowned out by the loud report of the gun.

The salt round hit the cat in the side with enough force to throw it off and away from Sam's prone form. The animal let out a scream that set every hair on the back of Dean's neck on end, but he had eyes only for his brother. Sam was lying unmoving on the floor of the cabin, his shirt stained scarlet with blood, and from his vantage point Dean couldn't even tell if his brother was still breathing.

"Sammy?" he cried out, even as he leveled the gun at the mountain lion and let out another round of rock salt, sending the cat retreating into the far corner of the cabin.

He stumbled forward, intent on reaching his brother, when a strong gust of icy air hit him. He barely had a chance to draw in a startled breath before he found himself hurled backwards by unseen hands. He flew through the hole in the wall and out into bright daylight, his gun flying from his hands before he had a chance to tighten his grip. His flight was brought to a sudden and violent halt as he slammed against the trunk of a large tree, all air knocked from his lungs with the force of the hit. Pain, hot and fierce, overwhelmed his senses, and darkness began to eat away at the edge of his vision even as he felt himself sliding down the trunk of the tree.

He was on the very edge of consciousness when he felt his downward movement halted by an iron grip settling around his throat. His feet still dangled a few inches from the ground, and if his lungs hadn't already forgotten how to draw in air, he might have been more concerned about the unyielding fingers clutched around his neck.

He blinked his eyes, fighting off the darkness, and Jeremiah's enraged features swam into view a few inches from his face. The spirit was flickering in and out of focus, one moment a solid gray mass, and the next barely visible in the bright afternoon light. Dean was unsure whether this was due to exposure to the sun or just Dean's vision going out on him. Not that it really mattered, because despite his fading in and out, Jeremiah's grip around his throat remained rock solid.

_Sammy!_ It was an anguished cry within his own mind as Dean felt the heavy weight of despair settle over him, overpowering even the crushing pain and his desperate need for air. Despite his best efforts…despite a lifetime of trying…he had failed his brother. Sam was alone and injured in a room with an angry mountain lion, and there was absolutely nothing Dean could do to save him. He had tried, and he had failed, and the weight of that knowledge was like a red hot sword piercing his heart. For all he knew, Sam might already be dead, and the only comfort he held was in the fact that he would soon be joining him.

"Let go of my son, you son of a bitch."

The words barely registered in Dean's fuzzy brain, but the loud report of the shotgun certainly did. Suddenly the grip around his throat vanished, and he felt himself tumbling forward, crying out as his injured body slammed painfully onto the hard ground. His lungs seemed to suddenly remember their purpose, but Dean almost wished they hadn't, as each gulping breath brought a wave of nauseating pain.

"Dean!" John was suddenly beside him, one calloused hand reaching out to grip his shoulder while the other held Dean's dropped shotgun at the ready. "Son, can you talk to me?"

"Sa…Sammy," Dean wheezed, his fear and desperation coming out in the single word. He gestured helplessly toward the cabin, and John seemed to understand what he was unable to say, for he instantly rose and turned toward the small shack. The scream of the mountain lion echoed from inside the cabin, and John broke into a run. Dean tried to push himself up to follow, but his body refused to obey his mind's commands, and he could only watch helplessly, silently urging his father on.

"_Hang on, Sammy! Oh, please hurry Dad. Hurry!"_

* * *

It had been a long time since John felt panicked. Fearful, certainly, but not panicked. But he certainly felt it now, as he listened to the scream of the mountain lion from within the cabin, knowing that his youngest son was trapped inside with the animal. Unbidden, his mind returned to the morgue he had visited a few days prior and the grisly remains he had seen there. This time, however, instead of some nameless face, he saw his youngest son lying cold and bloody on the uncaring metal slab, torn to shreds by the sharp claws of the angry predator.

He hurtled forward, shotgun in hand, praying desperately that he was not too late. He jumped through the hole in the cabin wall, lifting his gun even as his eyes scanned the tiny space for visual on his son. What he saw caused the blood to freeze in his veins.

Sam was kneeling, bloody and shaking, in the middle of the cabin floor, his back to his father. Before him, the mountain lion was stalking steadily forward, its large yellow eyes fixed on its prey. The position where John was standing provided him no clear shot without striking Sam. He opened his mouth to order his son down, but before he could speak, the cat pounced, lunging forward with an angry growl.

John raised the shotgun, his finger tightening on the trigger despite not having a clear shot. Before he could act, however, three loud shots rang out within the cabin, and the cat seemed to crumple mid-lunge, its body tumbling to the wooden floor of the cabin like a puppet with its strings cut. It twitched once, twice, then lay still, a small pool of blood spilling from beneath its head.

John stared in surprise, his gun still raised, his finger still poised on the trigger. It wasn't until Sam slumped back down to the ground with a small moan, his 9mm handgun dropping to the floor with a loud thud, that he managed to shake himself free of his shock and rush to his son's side. Sam's eyes were closed, his face white, and John felt another jolt of panic as he took in the boy's torn and blood stained clothes. He could see four deep gouges on Sam's left side, and more long scratches down his arm. Sam's shirt was already completely saturated in blood, and more seemed to be pouring from the wounds in his side at an alarming rate.

"Sammy." John quickly knelt beside his son, reaching out to gently cup the back of Sam's head. Sam let out a low moan, lashes fluttering before opening to revealing hazel eyes clouded with pain and confusion.

"Dad?" he whispered hoarsely, the expression on his face making it clear that John was not who he had been expecting.

"It's me," John confirmed, reaching out to grab the discarded handgun from where it had fallen to the floor. He flicked the safety on the gun, then tucked it into the waistband of his jeans. Quickly removing his jacket, he folded it into the semblance of a square and then pressed the material tightly against the long cuts on Sam's side. Sam flinched, moaning softly as he tried to move away from the painful pressure, but John wouldn't let him. "Sorry, kiddo," he murmured. "We have to get this bleeding under control before you pass out on me. Just try to breathe through the pain."

Sam did as he asked, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly before asking his father in a tremulous voice, "Where's Dean?"

John was unsurprised by the question. After all, when one of his boys was sick or injured, it was not _him_ that they asked for. It had not been him for a very long time. "Outside," he answered briefly, feeling a flash of worry for his firstborn. Dean had looked rough, and John hadn't had the time to check him out properly. The mountain lion might be down, but they still had a pissed off spirit they needed to deal with.

As if in response to his thoughts, a blast of cold air ripped through the cabin, throwing up a cloud of dust and debris from the dirty floor. John started to raise the shotgun, but before he could get it up he felt something slam into the side of his face, knocking him back and away from Sam, the shotgun flying from his hands. He slid a good three feet across the dusty floor, and before he could rise, the spirit of Jeremiah was perched on his chest, the ghostly hands settling around his neck in much the same way they had Dean's only moments before.

"_Murderers!"_ the spirit screamed, the sound at once both physical and inside John's mind. _"You will pay for your evil deeds! I will kill you. I will kill you all!"_

John's fingers scrabbled across the rough planks of the cabin floor in search of the shotgun, the spirit's fingers crushing down on his windpipe with bruising force. He bucked and thrashed, but to no avail, as Jeremiah's hate filled face stared down at him with evil triumph. Black dots began to dance across his vision and a roaring sound filled his ears. Somewhere in the background, he thought he heard Sam shouting his name.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the pressure released. John blinked upward as the form of Jeremiah stumbled up and away, his body suddenly awash in a sea of flames, his face twisted in horrified surprise. Then, with a single, loud shriek, and a final blast of heat and flames, he dissipated into thin air, the only sign he had ever been there the slight charred smell in the air.

John closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh of relief. "Atta boy, Dean," he muttered, pushing himself back up onto his feet and hurrying back toward Sam, who was attempting to push himself upright.

John knelt next to his son and put a hand on his back, helping to move him into a sitting position. "Easy there, kiddo," he murmured, his sharp gaze sweeping over Sam's bloody form. His son's eyes flew to his own, the gaze both questioning and worried. "I'm alright," John assured him quietly. "It's over. Your brother torched the bones."

Sam's eyes closed in relief, and he began to sag backwards before John caught him. "Oh no you don't," he said firmly, holding Sam upright. "We need to get you out of here. I'll be able to inspect those cuts a lot better outside where I can actually see. Just a few more minutes, son, then you can relax."

Sam's jaw tightened, but he gave a brief nod. John grabbed his uninjured arm and pulled it over his shoulder before reaching around his son's waist to grab hold of his belt. "Are you ready?" he asked, waiting for Sam's second nod before straightening up and hauling them both to their feet with one powerful thrust of his legs. Sam let out a little groan and sagged heavily against him, what little color remained draining from his face.

"Just hold on, kiddo," John encouraged, moving forward slowly, carrying most of his son's weight as Sam struggled to keep his feet under him. "Just a bit further…"

They made it to the hole in the side of the cabin, and after some careful maneuvering, managed to duck back outside. John's gaze immediately swept toward the smoking hole that marked Jeremiah's grave, his eyes seeking out his oldest son. He flinched when he caught sight of Dean's crumpled form lying a few feet from the grave, the older boy lying still and motionless.

"Dean!" Sam had caught sight of his brother as well. He immediately began struggling in John's arms, attempting to reach his brother.

"Knock it off, Sam," John ordered roughly, tightening his grip on his youngest. Spotting the trunk of a nearby tree, he half carried, half dragged Sam over to it and lowered him to the ground, ignoring Sam's weak argument. Quickly kneeling in front of him, he grabbed Sam's chin and forced his son to look at him. "I'm going to go and help your brother, but I need you to promise to stay here." He reached down and grabbed Sam's hand, pressing it against the jacket still stuck to Sam's side. "Hold this tight."

Sam opened his mouth, but John didn't give him a chance to argue. "I mean it, Sam," he said in the most forceful tone he could manage. "Don't move! I can't help your brother and you at the same time."

Sam gave a reluctant nod, his eyes losing none of their frantic worry as John rose and quickly turned away from him, heading for Dean's motionless form. He knelt next to his eldest son, his gaze sweeping his body for signs of injury. Besides a bloody bandage wrapped around his temple and what appeared to be a whole roll of duct tape encasing his left boot, there was no obvious signs of injury. John wasn't fooled, however. Years of experience had taught him that it was the unseen injury that was often the most dangerous. He could see Dean's chest rising and falling, and as he leaned closer he could hear the rasping wheeze that marked his son's every breath. He reached out and placed two fingers against Dean's neck, noting with relief that the pulse was fast but strong.

Coughing slightly on the thick black smoke rising from the grave, John slid one arm beneath Dean's knees and the other beneath his shoulders. With a grunt of effort, he lifted his son and began moving back toward Sam, grateful he didn't have far to go. Dean might not be very large, but he was built thick, and the days where he could easily lift and carry his sons were long gone.

"Is he okay?" Sam asked worriedly, reaching out to touch Dean's head as John lowered him gently to the ground next to him.

"I think so," John replied brusquely. "I don't really like the sound of his breathing, but his vitals are steady for now."

"Where's the medical bag?" Sam asked, glancing around as though he thought the answers to all their problems might be found in the green duffel.

"It's gone," John replied simply. "I lost it crossing the river."

"You lost it?" Sam repeated incredulously.

John frowned, but decided for the moment to ignore the accusation in his youngest son's voice. He also decided that now was not the best time to bring up the fact that he had come dangerously close to losing his own life as well.

"What are we going to do?" Sam asked, his voice desperate.

"Calm down, Sam," John said firmly, reaching out to grip his son's shoulders. "Dean's going to be fine. We just need to give him a moment to wake up." He hoped fervently that it was the truth. He remembered arriving at the cabin just in time to see Dean slammed into the tree by Jeremiah's spirit. The impact had been violent, and from the looks of it Dean had already been injured.

Sam let out a deep breath, his eyes sliding closed for a moment as he leaned his head back wearily against the trunk of the tree. In the bright afternoon light, he looked even paler then he had inside the cabin, and John felt a flare of worry. He reached out and gently peeled back one edge of the jacket pressed against Sam's side, inwardly wincing at the deep slices. He glanced at the cuts running down Sam's arm, but they didn't appear to be nearly as deep as the wounds on his side, and most had already clotted.

"Keep pushing on that jacket, son." John ordered, relieved when Sam's eyes opened and he gave a short nod. "It looks like the bleeding has slowed down." He didn't mention that Sam had already lost far too much blood for comfort. He needed to get his son help, and soon.

A low moan sounded from the ground beside them, and John's gaze snapped back down to Dean. Sam managed to push himself more upright against the tree as he reached out a hand and gently tapped his brother's cheek.

"Dean, hey man, wake up," he called, continuing to tap Dean's cheek.

John added his efforts by reaching out and squeezing the top of his son's arm. "Wake up, Dean," he ordered in his firmest voice, not at all surprised when Dean responded to the command with another low moan and fluttering eyelashes.

Slowly Dean's lids pulled back to reveal slits of green. He blinked up at John for a second or two before his gaze swept past him to find Sam. Undisguised relief flooded his face at the sight of his little brother, and he immediately began to attempt to sit up. He didn't get far, however, before a look of pain flashed across his features, and he let out a low yelp.

"Easy, Dean," John ordered, reaching out to steady him. "You alright?"

Dean closed his eyes, breathing heavily, his face a mask of pain, but not unsurprisingly he attempted to dismiss it with a single shake of his head. "I'm fine," he whispered. "Just…a little…out of…breath."

John frowned at the rasping sound Dean was making with every breath. He knew his son was anything _but_ fine, but he also knew that Dean wouldn't admit the full extent of his injuries easily. It had always been that way with him, a trait his son had undoubtedly picked up from him.

When the boys had been younger, John had always tried to hide his injuries from them, with varying degrees of success. Even when they had grown older, and Dean had often been forced to help patch up some of his more serious injuries, John had always tried to hide the pain so his boys wouldn't worry as much. Intentional or not, he knew he had sent the message that showing pain was unacceptable…that it was weakness…and Dean had learnt it well.

His son made another attempt to rise, his features set in a mask of determination, and with a small sigh John reached out and carefully helped pull him into a sitting position, easing him back until he was resting against the trunk of the tree beside Sam.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was shaking slightly, and he watched Dean's face intently.

John watched as his oldest son took one final, shaky breath, before letting a blank mask settle firmly over his features, effectively walling away any sign of the pain he was obviously in. "How ya doing, Sammy?" he asked, turning his head in Sam's direction and instantly frowning as he took in his brother's blood soaked shirt and makeshift bandage pressed to his side.

"I'm alright," Sam answered wearily, leaning back against the tree, his shoulder brushing against Dean's. "Cat took a chunk out of me, though."

Dean swallowed hard, his gaze flickering toward John, the worry plain in his green eyes. "I see that," he replied softly. "I thought I warned you not to roll in that catnip this morning."

Sam smiled slightly at Dean's forced attempt at levity. "Yeah, well, I thought _you_ were supposed to protect me from the 'bad ol putty tat'," he retorted.

A look of raw pain and regret flashed quickly across Dean's face, gone before Sam could see it. The words had been said in jest, but John knew exactly how deep they would have cut for Dean. His oldest son held protecting his little brother as his single most important duty, and anytime Sam got hurt Dean took it as a personal failure. John knew he had inadvertently contributed to this characteristic of Dean's as well; all the times he had left Dean alone with Sam with a firm warning to 'watch out for your little brother.' He had somehow forgotten to mention that he wanted Dean to watch out for himself as well, and the result was that his eldest son had grown up with an almost flippant disregard for his own well-being, while remaining obsessive in his protectiveness over Sam.

John sighed, running a quick hand down his face. Now was not the time to consider all the ways he had been remiss as a father. The list was too long and he simply did not have the time. He needed to be thinking about how to get his boys some help. Dean's breathing was sounding worse by the minute, and Sam was far too pale.

As if reading his mind, Dean glanced in his direction and asked softly, "What are we going to do now, Dad?"

John took a deep breath and pushed himself to his feet. "We're going to get you boys some help," he replied firmly, glancing back over his shoulder toward Jeremiah's still smoking grave.

"How?" Sam asked bleakly. He had leaned his head back against the trunk of the tree, and was peering up at John tiredly. "We're in the middle of nowhere, with no way to call for help."

"That's not entirely true," John replied. "The rangers I talked to in town told me they're keeping this area under pretty close surveillance from the air. All I need to do is find some way to get their attention, and I think I have a pretty good idea of how to do that."

"How?" Dean asked curiously, shifting further upright against the tree, unable to hide the wince of pain the movement caused. His arms rose to wrap protectively around his sides, confirming John's suspicions that the boy's ribs were likely damaged.

"By burning down _that_," John replied, thrusting his chin in the direction of the rotted out cabin. "Should send up a smoke plume that will be visible for miles. The rangers will come running to investigate as soon as they see it."

Sam let out a small grunt. "A signal fire," he muttered, his voice sounding impressed. "Good idea, Dad."

* * *

The fire was impressive.

It took several minutes to get started due to the wet wood, but once it took hold it grew quickly, sending out chocking clouds of thick black smoke. The smoke was chased upward by hungry tongues of flickering orange flame, the dull roar of the wood being consumed loud in the otherwise quiet wilderness.

Watching from his position against the trunk of the nearby tree, Dean could feel the heat of the fire and was glad the slight afternoon breeze was carrying the smoke away from his position. John had already cleared away the vegetation from around the edges of the house, minimizing the chance of the flames spreading. Now he could see his father near the far end of the cabin, quickly shoveling dirt back into the hole over Jeremiah's ashes. There would be enough questions asked about their presence here without adding a dug-up, burned-out corpse to the list.

"Now all we need…is marshmallows."

Dean arched an eyebrow and turned to face his brother, not at all liking the pain he could easily hear in Sam's voice. His brother sat hunched over, jacket pressed tightly to his side, his pale face reflecting the orange glow of the fire. He was trembling slightly, and Dean wondered if it was merely a reaction to the pain, or if his brother was slipping into the beginning stages of shock brought on by blood loss. Either way, he needed help, and fast.

"Hang in there, Sammy," Dean urged, frustrated by his inability to help. He was in a world of pain himself, but he barely acknowledged it in his overwhelming worry for his brother. "Just a bit longer now."

"What if they don't come?" Sam asked, his voice weary.

"They will," Dean answered forcefully, as though all it would take was the strength of his desire to make it true. "And if they don't, Dad and I will carry you out of here."

Sam rolled his head to one side to peer over at him. "Two problems with that, Dean," he answered dryly. "One…there is no way to get back across the river even if we could reach it. And two…can you even stand up right now?"

Dean grunted, slowly shaking his head. "Has anyone ever told you that you think too much, Sammy?"

Sam let out a breathless laugh. "Yeah, _you_…more than once."

"Okay, well it's time you start listening to me," Dean retorted. "We're getting you out of here, and that's final, you hear me?"

Sam stared at him silently for a long moment before slowly nodding. "Yeah," he sighed, turning his head forward once more and letting his eyes drift closed.

"Uh-uh, buddy," Dean objected, jerking his shoulder against Sam's. "You're staying awake and keeping me company until help arrives. I'm pretty sure I have a concussion on top of a concussion right now, and you don't want me falling asleep."

Sam reluctantly opened his eyes, rolling them sideways to peer at Dean without moving his head. "Okay, so _now_ you don't want me sleeping?" he asked incredulously. "Last night you kept trying to convince me it was okay."

"_Last night you weren't slowly bleeding to death on me_," Dean thought. Out loud he said, "It's the middle of the day, Sammy, and you're too old to take naps."

Sam let out a soft snort. "Since when?" he grumbled, but he did straighten slightly, turning to face Dean once more. "So, how badly hurt _are_ you?"

Dean winced at his brother's chosen topic of conversation. He needed something to distract him from the pain, not remind him of it. He didn't have to lift a hand to know that he now had a knot on the back of his head to match the one on the front. It was a running joke between Sam and him that the reason he had not done as well in school was because of the number of times he had taken a hard knock on the head. It was all said in teasing, but from the fierce pain throbbing through his skull, Dean knew he had to have killed at least a few brain cells. And then there was the piercing pain flaring up from his ankle not to be outdone by the agony that wrapped around his chest and into his back with every breath he took. This pain he recognized, having broken more than a few ribs in his lifetime. All in all, he figured he felt much like a piece of road-kill might right after being hit by a truck.

"I'm okay," he answered simply. "A few knots and bruises, but nothing a few painkillers won't fix."

"Don't forget the broken bones," Sam huffed, giving Dean a knowing look. "And I'm afraid you're going to have to wait on those painkillers some more…Dad lost the medical bag."

Dean merely nodded, having already suspected as much when their father hadn't immediately whipped out the green duffel and started playing field doctor. In truth, it fit with how the rest of this trip had gone. Still, it had taken them months to collect all the material in the bag, and some of it had not been cheap. It was a true loss, and not just because he could _really_ use some painkillers at the moment.

This whole hunt had been one giant fiasco from beginning to end. Dean couldn't even find any pleasure in the fact that they had succeeded in toasting Jeremiah's bones. Too much had happened…too much had gone wrong, and he racked his brain trying to figure out his mistakes.

The evidence of his greatest mistake was sitting right next to him, and Dean felt his failure as a bitter taste on his tongue. After all his talk, after all the effort to drag himself along so he could watch his brother's back, he had failed to do just that.

"Stop it."

Dean turned startled eyes to his brother, finding Sam watching him with a frown on his face. "Stop what?" he asked.

"Blaming yourself for everything that went wrong," Sam replied simply. "I can see it on your face, Dean, so don't bother denying it."

Dean swallowed hard. "I missed seeing that mountain lion, and because of it, you got hurt. How is that _not_ my fault? I was supposed to be watching your back!" As was often the case, Dean felt his guilt morph into anger.

Sam let out a tired sigh, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the trunk of the tree. "It's not your fault, Dean" he stated quietly. "That cat came out of nowhere. I didn't see it either. And you saved my ass. You got it off me long enough I could reach the gun. Please don't blame yourself for this."

As quickly as it had come, Dean felt all his anger drain out of him. Sam sounded so tired, his body language screaming of his pain and fatigue, and the last thing Dean wanted to do was get in an argument with him over who was to blame.

He steered the conversation in a different direction instead. "So, you took out the mountain lion?" he asked, his tone impressed.

"Yeah," Sam muttered, not bothering to open his eyes. "It is now official…I freakin' _hate_ cats!"

Dean forced out a small chuckle. "Well, there goes my birthday present for you," he sighed in mock disappointment.

Sam's eyes snapped open, and he cast Dean a warning glare. "You wouldn't dare," he growled.


	7. Chapter 7

**Thank you all so much for the reviews! They are such an encouragement.**

**Please note in this and the following chapter that I am NOT a doctor or medical professional of any sort. Enough said.**

**Also, I did quite a bit of tinkering after my beta worked on this, so any and all remaining errors are mine.**

**Hope you enjoy…**

**Chapter 7**

Phil Masters had been flying his AK1-3 helicopter for the Department of Forestry for over twenty years. For him, it wasn't just a job, but a passion. He never felt more alive and free than when he was soaring through the air, the ground slipping away beneath and nothing but clouds and the occasional bird beside him. He had reached retirement age last year, but had opted to continue on with the Department part time rather than give up the freedom he found in the skies.

For the last week, Phil had been assigned to run surveillance over a portion of Huntington State Park. His assignment was simple; look out for anything unusual. Needless to say, the week had passed uneventfully. But on this day, just when he was about to head back to town for a late lunch and a re-fuel, he spotted something to the South that immediately caught his attention. It was a heavy plume of smoke, lifting lazily from the canopy of trees and drifting upward into the clear blue sky.

Phil frowned, immediately banking the helicopter in the direction of the smoke. With all the strange animal attacks recently, the Department had shut down all the campgrounds and restricted access into this portion of the Park. Which meant the smoke wasn't coming from any of the authorized campgrounds. With all the rain the previous day, it seemed unlikely that the fire was nature made. Phil wondered if some poachers had decided to take advantage of the Park's closure to slip in and get in some illegal hunting. It wouldn't be the first time.

Keying up his radio, Phil contacted his dispatcher, Jan, and let her know he was investigating some suspicious smoke near the center of the park. Then he thrust the helicopter into full throttle, heading toward the area at maximum speed.

Phil wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't what he found as he neared the Black River fork. As he flew over the river, he could clearly make out the figure of a man standing down near the bank, arms raised above his head in an obvious attempt to flag Phil down.

Glancing down at his fuel gauge, Phil debated his next move. If the man _was_ a poacher, there was no telling what he might do. They were known to be an unpredictable and dangerous lot. Only the previous year a Ranger had been shot and wounded by a poacher attempting to escape the ticket and hefty fine associated with illegal hunting. Phil was too old to want to tangle with something like that.

Then again, it seemed highly unlikely that a poacher would be waving him down in the first place. He couldn't deny the possibility that the fire had been started for the purpose of drawing his attention, and if that was the case, the man probably needed his help. And he had never been one to turn his back on a fellow man in need.

Decision made, Phil made another quick call into dispatch to explain the situation, and then circled around in search of a clear area to land. Finding a patch of fairly flat land near the bank of the river, Phil brought the AK1-3 down, then switched off the propellers. The sudden silence was deafening, even as the rotors overhead continued their lazy spin.

Removing his headphones, Phil opened the door and stepped out of the helicopter, watching warily as the man who had waved him down approached. He was tall and well built, with a thick beard and intense hazel eyes, and he looked genuinely relieved to see Phil.

"Glad you're here," he stated simply upon reaching the helicopter, one hand outstretched in greeting. "My name is John Williams, and my two boys are both hurt and in need of medical attention."

Phil blinked at the man in surprise, even as he took the calloused hand and gave it a quick shake. "Phil Masters," he introduced, glancing quickly toward the tree line off to his right. "You set the cabin on fire!" he exclaimed, realizing for the first time the source of the smoke.

"Sorry," the man gave a small shrug, his features and tone showing none of the apology he had just uttered. "I had to get someone's attention."

Phil snorted. "You got my attention, alright, but I can tell you the Rangers aren't going to be very happy with you, especially if that fire spreads!"

John merely stared at him, before repeating quietly, "my boys are hurt."

Phil sighed, nodding his head slowly. "Tell me what happened," he urged, even as John turned and began leading him away from the river and up toward the tree line. "This area is off limits to campers and hikers, you know."

"I know," John responded. "We were fishing farther upriver, out of the restricted zone, when the motor on our boat went out and we were carried downstream," he explained. "My oldest son, Dean, fell overboard and got banged up pretty badly on some rocks. We managed to get him back on board and make it to the shore, but by that time we were already pretty far downriver and our boat was smashed to pieces. We saw the cabin and decided to spend the night here before trying to hike out in the morning. That's when my other son, Sam, was attacked by a mountain lion. I managed to chase the thing off, but Sam's cut up pretty good. I decided to set fire to the cabin and try to get us some help."

Phil arched an eyebrow at the man's incredible story. "Sounds like you boys were pretty lucky," he commented. "Black River's not the best place to go fishing this time of the year…current's too strong and it tends to flood out every time it rains."

"So we found out," John answered dryly.

"And you said your son was attacked by a mountain lion?" Phil asked, more interested in this aspect of the story. The Department of forestry seemed to be convinced that the animals in this part of the park had been infected with some virulent form of rabies. Phil had been skeptical at first, but he wasn't sure how else to explain the sudden violent tendencies of the animals in the area. He had never seen anything like it in his twenty years of service.

"That's right," John answered shortly. "He's lost a lot of blood and needs to get to a hospital quickly."

Phil nodded, having spotted the two boys sitting up against the base of a giant tree. Both were watching his approach with looks of open relief and neither looked in the best condition, with pale faces and bloody clothes.

"See, what did I tell you, Sammy," the older one stated as John and Phil approached. "We'll be in the hospital flirting with the pretty nurses in no time."

Phil cleared his throat. "Uh, about that…" he began, squirming as all eyes were instantly drawn to him. "You saw my bird," he spoke to John now. "It's a lightweight AK1-3…used mostly for surveillance. There are only two seats built into the thing."

The three men merely stared at him, and Phil hurried on to explain. "There was a time I might have been able to fit three in there, but I'm afraid the Forestry Department has filled all my empty space with equipment…most of it bolted in place. Now, even two will be a tight fight. I'm afraid I'll only be able to take one of you out with me."

There was a single moment of silence while the three men digested his words, and then the oldest boy spoke in a quiet but firm voice. "Sammy," he stated simply, his gaze locked on his father. "Sam's going on the first trip." His tone left room for no argument.

The younger of the two boy's opened his mouth, looking as though he were about to argue, but John didn't give him a chance. "He's right. You're going first Sam. No…don't argue. You'll ride with Phil to the hospital, and then he can turn around and come back for Dean."

"I can do one better than that," Phil broke in. "As soon as we hit the air, I can radio dispatch and have them send out one of the Department's rescue helicopters. They can seat up to six and can probably be back here in an hour or so…maybe less if their already out and about."

John nodded. "Sounds good," he stated. "Now let's get Sam out of here. No Dean..." he snapped, as the older boy looked as though he were going to try and rise. "Stay put. Phil and I can help Sammy."

Phil moved forward, ready to offer his support as John reached down and grabbed his son's arm and gently but quickly hauled him to his feet. Sam let out a breathless groan, swaying on his feet, and Phil quickly moved to his side, swinging the boy's arm over his shoulder and supporting his waist. John mirrored his movement on the other side.

"Easy now," John murmured to his son as Sam moaned once again. "It's not far, kiddo. You can do it."

"See you at the hospital," Dean called from his spot on the ground, his voice sounding worried…almost panicked. "Try not to take all the pretty nurses for yourself."

"Yeah…" Sam gasped. "See ya…"

Phil and John had to practically carry the young man as they moved back toward the river, the boy barely able to support any of his own weight. As they neared the edge of the trees, Sam suddenly twisted in their arms, throwing a glance back toward his brother. Phil tightened his grip, and a moment later Sam turned back around, stumbling forward once more.

As soon as they reached the helicopter, Phil pulled open the passenger door, then stood back and watched as John swiftly lifted his son and set him in place on the narrow seat. He leaned forward and murmured something in Sam's ear, then stepped back, his hand drifting briefly across the side of his son's head. Sam sank back against the seat, his arm pressed tightly against his side, his eyes half-lidded as he gazed at his father.

John stepped away, closing the helicopter door and turning to face Phil. "Take care of my boy," he said firmly, and Phil got the distinct impression it was more of a command than a request.

Giving a short nod, he turned and hurried around the nose of the helicopter, opening his own door and swinging inside. He waited until John had moved clear, and then flipped the switch to ignite the engine. The rotors instantly came to life with a loud hum, and Phil could feel the helicopter vibrating around him. He glanced over at his passenger, worriedly noting how the young man sat slumped against the opposite door.

"Hang in there, kid," he muttered, hoping he wasn't about to end the day transporting a body to the hospital. "Just hang in there."

* * *

Sam was floating in a sea of pain.

The cuts along his ribs burned and throbbed in persistent agony, and it was all he could do to keep the wadded up jacket pressed tightly against his side. He was shaking, small little tremors that quivered down his spine and into his arms and legs, muscles clenching and releasing in uncontrollable spasms. His body kept swinging between flushed warmth and bone deep chill, and he had to keep his jaw tightly clenched in order to keep his teeth from chattering. Exhaustion lay over him like a heavy blanket, weighing down his eyelids and beckoning him enticingly toward the painless darkness of oblivion.

He fought back against his weariness, eyes stubbornly held open as he gazed toward the spot in the forest where the dark plume of smoke still drifted up into the clear blue sky. The trees hid his brother from his sight, but he continued to stare anyway as the helicopter vibrated and hummed around him. Then, with a small jerk, it lifted free from the confines of the earth, rising quickly into the air before banking smoothly to the left to head north toward the town.

Sam let out a small sigh as the plume of smoke shifted out of his field of vision. He let his head drop wearily back against the back of the seat, his body slumping even further into the soft confines of the seat. He felt a clenching fear deep in the pit of his stomach, and more than ever he wished his brother was with him. Dean had the uncanny ability to make Sam feel better no matter how badly he felt, and right now his absence was achingly felt. Add to that the guilt he felt for leaving Dean behind, and his misery was complete. He felt tears stinging his eyes, but didn't have the strength to blink them away. It made him feel like he was five again, running to Dean after falling and scraping his knees, ready and anxious for the comfort only his brother could bring.

The pilot…Sam couldn't seem to remember his name…said something, but Sam's muddled brain couldn't process the words, let alone function to form a response. He turned his head away instead, pressing his forehead against the cool glass of the window beside him. Almost against his will he felt his eyes sliding shut, the vibration of the helicopter hypnotic and somehow soothing.

A voice in the back of his head…one which sounded an awful lot like his brother…urged him to remain awake, but he was simply too tired. All his energy was draining away just as surely as the blood draining from his body, and he was powerless to stop it.

_Sorry. _

It was an abstract thought floating on the edge of his consciousness, and Sam wasn't even sure who he was apologizing to, or even what he was apologizing for. He just knew that he couldn't fight the pain and exhaustion any longer. The darkness was coming to claim him, and he didn't even try to fight it this time.

Maybe by the time he woke up, Dean would be there beside him, and then…and only then…would everything be okay.

* * *

Sam was gone.

Dean stared at the place his brother had disappeared, fighting against the sense of emptiness and loss that was settling over him. He reminded himself that this was what he wanted, that it meant Sam was finally getting the help he so desperately needed. Still, watching his brother…exhausted, bleeding and hurting…walking _away_ from him, felt somehow _wrong_.

_He'll be okay, _he told himself firmly, clenching his jaw in an effort to fight down the worry. The helicopter would have Sam at the hospital in no time. He would be safe and cared for. Still, it was hard to forget how bad Sam had looked…how much blood his brother had lost. If Dean were the praying type, he would have been talking God's ear off about then.

Leaning his head back against the trunk of the tree, he let out a deep sigh, immediately regretting it as his ribs screamed in protest. Without Sam there to keep his focus, the pain of his injuries was threatening to overwhelm him, and it was all he could do not to cry out. He let his eyes drift closed, hoping his mind would come up with something to help distract him from the complaints of his broken body. Unfortunately, the thoughts that came to him were anything but comforting.

_Sammy wants out._

That single thought brought a new, unique kind of pain.

Sam truly hated this life, was desperate to get away, and if Dean knew his brother at all, Sam already had a plan in motion to do just that. He recalled again Sam's obsession with the ACTs, but this time there was no humor in the memory as comprehension dawned.

"You'd be good at college, Sammy," Dean whispered softly, hardly aware he had spoken aloud. The statement seemed like some kind of personal betrayal, and a small part of him was screaming out a denial. He should be fighting this…working out a plan to counteract his brother's, but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

A vision filled his mind; Sam at college, walking proudly down the sidewalk, books clutched in his hand, smiling and laughing with friends as he made his way to class. The contrast between the healthy, smiling Sam of the vision and the broken and bleeding Sam who had just been led away made his heart clench painfully in his chest. If he had to choose between the two, it would be no contest which one he would pick.

As awful as he found the thought of Sam leaving them…leaving _him_…it was even more painful to contemplate what it would be like to lose Sam to one of the creatures they hunted. He couldn't seem to shake the image of his brother pinned to the floor of the cabin, the mountain lion perched atop him ready to tear out his throat.

It had been far too close.

At college, there were no possessed mountain lions, no ghosts, witches, shtriga, or other monsters that haunted the darkness of night and always seemed to want a piece of Winchester hide. At college, Sam would be safe, and Dean wouldn't have to feel the gut wrenching terror he had felt in the few moments when he had thought Sam might be dead. He would gladly give his right arm to never again feel that kind of fear and grief.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't notice his father had returned until he felt a light touch on his shoulder. "Dean?" John spoke in a tone of voice that left it obvious that it wasn't the first time he had called out his son's name.

Dean jerked slightly in surprise, his eyes flying open and snapping upward to catch his father's worried gaze.

"You alright, Ace?" John asked softly, resting his hand gently against the side of Dean's head, thumb at the base of his neck.

The use of his old nickname, combined with the unexpected tender gesture, had Dean fighting down a lump in his throat even as he blinked his eyes rapidly to rid them of a sudden sting.

"I'm fine," he answered, his voice sounding slightly choked. He cleared his throat and tried again, satisfied when his voice came out stronger. "Did Sam get away safely?"

John nodded, dropping his hand and sitting back on his heels with a deep sigh. "He's gone," he replied tiredly. "The other helicopter should be on its way shortly."

Dean nodded, dropping his gaze down to his lap. Overwhelming weariness seemed to settle on his shoulders, threatening to push him down into the ground, and he fought against the urge to just lay his head back and surrender to the darkness. At least unconscious he wouldn't feel the pain.

"Why don't you fill me in on what happened to you boys after we got separated?" John asked, his earlier gentleness replaced with the no-nonsense tone of voice that Dean more easily recognized.

Dean couldn't help but flinch, not really keen on going over the disastrous events that had led to their current situation. It hurt to breathe, let alone talk, and to top it off, the idea of revealing all his mistakes to his father was not a pleasant one. His head was pounding and he was feeling more than a little nauseous. Still, avoiding it now would only prolong the inevitable; John always required a full debriefing on every hunt that did not go down exactly as planned. He would listen to Dean's story, and then patiently point out the points where Dean had made his mistakes. It was an ongoing tradition, and though Dean usually handled it well, he wasn't at all sure he was ready for it this time.

Sighing in resignation, he took a small, steadying breath, wincing at the pull along his ribs. He began to tell the tale, sticking to the facts and not going into detail about the conversation he'd had with Sam, nor the revelation that had occurred to him regarding his brother. Those things were between him and Sam, and Dean would deal with all the ramifications of it later. He kept his eyes fixed on his lap as he spoke, not wanting to see the look of disapproval he suspected his father would be wearing.

A silence filled the air after Dean finished speaking, and despite himself he found his gaze straying to seek out his father's face. When their eyes met, Dean was surprised when his father gave a small smile. "You did well, Dean," John stated softly.

Dean frowned, wondering if he had heard correctly.

Seeing his look, John hurried to explain. "A lot of things went wrong on this hunt, it's true, but I can't really see anything that could have been done differently. You handled each issue that came up, and in the end, you got the job done. That's what matters."

Dean shook his head, thinking his father hadn't been listening close enough to his story. "I let the mountain lion get to Sammy, Dad. I was right there…watching, and I still managed to miss it. He got hurt because of me."

John let out a long sigh, running one hand down his face. "That mountain lion was possessed, Dean. That means it could move a lot quicker and quieter than normal. It's not that surprising that you didn't see it coming. It's not your fault son."

Dean stared at his father's face, wanting desperately to believe the man. He still felt guilty about what had happened to Sam, but having his father tell him that he didn't blame him eased some of the ache that had settled around his heart.

"Sometimes shit happens, Dean," John stated, repeating a phrase that was often used in their family. "It's what you do to handle it when it does happen that's important, and you handled everything just fine. Let it go, son."

Nodding slowly, Dean turned his gaze back to his lap. A long silence stretched out between them before a sudden thought had Dean turning back to his father.

"Hey, dad?" he started, suddenly feeling hesitant. "I was just thinking…maybe when school starts back up we can find a place up near Pastor Jim's, or maybe Bobby's."

John arched one eyebrow in question, and Dean hurried on. "That way Sam can stick to one school for his whole senior year. If we get a hunt, you and I can take care of it and Sam can stay behind. He'll have Jim or Bobby if he needs anything, and we won't have to pull him with us from school to school."

John frowned. "Where is this coming from, Dean?" he asked, his voice brisk. "We've always traveled together as a family when hunting."

Dean shrugged. "I know," he replied. "It's just that Sam really wants to do well this year. You know he's already started studying for his ACTs. It's really important to him, and staying in one school will definitely help. I just thought, since it's his senior year, we could let him have a little stability for once?"

John stared at him, and Dean fought the urge to squirm under his father's scrutiny, wondering if his dad suspected there was more to Dean's request than met the eye. Eventually John grunted. "I'll think about it," he said shortly and left it at that.

Dean didn't say anything, knowing it was all he was going to get out of his father at this time. Unlike Sam, who undoubtedly would have tried to press the issue, Dean knew when it was time to back off. He had planted the idea in John's head, and now he just had to wait and see if it took hold.

They sat in silence then, watching the last of the fire burn down to embers as they listened for the telltale sound of approaching rescue. Dean truly felt like crap, and spent the time trying to distract himself from not only the pain, but also the prospect of the upcoming trip in the helicopter. He would never admit it, but the thought of flying out in one of those tin-cans was terrifying to him. If there was any possible way he could _walk_ back to town, he would have been urging his father that route. He had to force himself to remember that the helicopter would get him to his brother's side that much quicker.

He was just imagining he could hear the distant thump-thump of an approaching helicopter, when a sudden shift in the wind sent a snaking tendril of smoke and ash drifting in their direction. Without realizing it, Dean pulled in a deep breath just as the smoke reached them. The burn to his nose and the back of his throat was instant, and without thought he began to cough deeply in an effort to clear his stinging passageways.

It was a mistake.

Pain so fierce it blacked out his vision blossomed from his back and into his chest, forcing all the air from his lungs in an agonized whoosh. His cough quickly turned into a harsh grunt, and he brought his arms up into a protective X across his chest.

"Dean?" John leaned over him, his brow furrowed in concern.

Dean clenched his eyes closed, a sound distressingly like a whimper escaping from his tightly clenched jaw. He could feel the betraying sting of tears filling his eyes, and he tried desperately to push past the agony and take a small breath of air. No matter how bad the pain, he couldn't let himself fall apart in front of his father.

A moment later, however, all thoughts of maintaining his dignity fled, replaced by fear as he realized his lungs weren't cooperating with his body's demand. It was as though a heavy weight had settled against his chest, compressing his lungs and refusing to allow them to expand. The little air he was able to gulp down felt thick, as though he were trying to breathe mud, and it might as well have been mud for all the good it did him.

"Dean!" John's voice was sharper and edged with fear, and Dean could feel his father's hands gripping his shoulder. He forced his eyes open, knowing his father would be able to read the raw panic in his gaze.

_Dad, I can't breathe!_

It was a silent cry, but John seemed to understand, for the next thing Dean knew, he was being pulled into his father's arms, propped up against his dad's thick chest, John's strong arms holding him upright. "Don't do this Dean! Just focus on breathing. Small little breathes, you hear me son?"

Dean heard, but getting his body to obey was more difficult. It was as though someone had flipped the off switch on his lungs, and though his mouth was open and he was desperately trying to suck in air, nothing seemed to be getting through.

"No! Don't do this. Not now, son. Just breathe. Breathe, dammit!"

With all his heart Dean wanted to obey, but his body was no longer his to command. A strange numbness was beginning to settle over him, betrayed only by the wild pounding of his heart. He tried to look up into his father's face, wanting and needing the comfort and familiarity he knew he would find there, but his vision was already beginning to fade, and his father was nothing but a blur above him. He could distantly hear John's voice calling out to him, but the words were drowned out by the loud roaring filling his ears.

The last thought that went through Dean's mind before darkness claimed him, was that at least he wasn't alone. He would die in his father's arms, as close to _home_ as he would ever get.


	8. Chapter 8

_Okay, first of all, let me say sorry for the extra long delay in getting this chapter posted. I can blame some of it on the craziness of the holidays, but mostly this chapter just didn't want to let me beat it into submission. Oh well, it is extra long, so hopefully that will help make up for some of the delay._

_Thanks again to everyone who has read and especially to those who have reviewed this story. Thank you, thank you, thank you! _

_Also, thank you to firstcatfish for beta reading this story for me. Everyone should go and check out her new story "Memories of Madness." It promises to be a very good one! You can find a link to it on my favorites page._

_Now, without further ado…_

**Chapter 8**

Sam woke to a persistent beeping sound, the noise coming from somewhere behind and to the right of him. He blinked open bleary eyes, fighting against the thick cobwebs of unconsciousness as he stared up at the white, nondescript ceiling.

He didn't have to look around to know that he was lying in a hospital bed. The sharp scent of antiseptic and the starched feel of the sheets against his skin were only all too familiar. Add to that the pain,…distant and muted by drugs, but still definitely there…the weakness, and the overwhelming weariness, and he would have known where he was blindfolded.

Letting out a low sigh, Sam rocked his head slowly back and forth on the pillow, taking in the small details in the room around him; the needle stuck deep in the crook of his right arm, the multiple IV bags hanging from the pole beside the bed, the blood pressure cuff around his upper arm, the pulse-ox meter taped to one finger, and the white bandages encasing his left arm. He also noticed the empty chair sitting in the far corner of the room, and he frowned at it, disturbed by its presence…or more accurately, disturbed by the fact that it was unoccupied.

Grabbing the remote stuck down between the mattress and the edge of the bed frame, he pushed the button to raise the head of the bed. As the top of his body slowly angled upward, he couldn't hold back a low hiss of discomfort as his side came alive with a fierce aching pain. Pushing back the blankets, he realized he was bare chested but for a large white bandage taped over his left side.

He blinked down at the bandage, trying to remember exactly what had happened to him.

It was just one of the many things he hated about hospitals; the drugs they gave him always made it hard for him to think, leaving him feeling disoriented and confused. Most of the time his brother or father were there to help fill in the gaps for him, but this time he was left floundering, and he couldn't help but throw an accusing glare across the room at the empty chair.

The door to his room suddenly swung open, admitting a pretty blond nurse carrying a clipboard. Glancing over and seeing him awake and sitting up, she gave him a huge grin. "Good to see you awake," she chirped, moving over to the bedside and running a critical eye over his form. "You gave us quite the scare, young man," she added firmly, as though Sam were a naughty two-year old who had purposefully caused trouble.

"Where am I?" Sam asked, still trying to clear his clouded thoughts. "What happened?"

"You're at Price Regional Hospital," the nurse replied succinctly, peering over his head to read the numbers off the machine recording his vital signs. "And a hundred and thirty-two stitches is what happened. Dr. Cooper says it's a new record for him."

Sam blinked up at her in surprise. A hundred and thirty-two stitches? It was a new record for him as well.

"You were unconscious when they brought you in," the nurse continued, jotting down the numbers from the machine onto the clipboard she carried. "And you had lost a lot of blood. We had to give you nearly 5 pints before your vitals stabilized. It was pretty touch and go for a while. Like I said, you gave us quite the scare." She turned and smiled at him again.

"What happened?" Sam repeated, reaching up carefully to rub wearily at his forehead. He had a headache building right behind his eyes, and the nurse's friendly chatter was not helping at all.

She finally took pity on him. "You were mauled by a mountain lion, sweetie. Don't you remember?"

For a split second Sam stared up at her in disbelief, but then his mind was suddenly filled with the vision of a giant cat sailing through the air at him, its mouth pulled back in a rictus snarl. Then, just as if someone had flipped a switch, his memory returned to him in a flood; Jeremiah's cabin, the cat attacking him, his father showing up, Dean torching the bones, getting in the helicopter for the ride to the hospital. It was there that his memories became hazy. He could remember taking off and the helicopter pilot talking to him, and then…nothing.

Biting his lower lip he glanced up at the nurse, noting the name tag on her right shoulder. "Lori, do you know what happened to my dad and brother?" he asked worriedly. "Another helicopter was supposed to bring them in."

Lori looked away, her fingers fiddling with the wires of the pulse-ox. "They're here," she replied carefully. "I think they're still downstairs in the ER."

"Is my brother okay?" Sam asked worriedly.

"I don't really know all the details, Sam," she answered, still not meeting his eyes as she pulled back the blanket to inspect the bandage on his side. "I can send someone to find out and then get back to you?"

Sam frowned, not really liking the way the nurse seemed to be purposely avoiding his gaze. Reading body language was something John had taught his sons at an early age, and right now Sam was fairly certain there was something Lori was not telling him.

"Yeah, okay, that'd be great," he replied softly.

Lori nodded and finished her inspection quickly. She asked him to rate his pain on a scale of 1 to 10, and Sam gave her a low number, not wanting any more pain meds that might make him drowsy until after he found out about his family. After asking if he needed anything else, Lori made one final notation on her clipboard and then slipped silently from the room.

Sam settled back against the pillows, unconsciously gnawing at the edges of his thumbnail as he waited, alone in his pain and worry. He knew he might be overreacting, but something about the nurse's hesitant behavior, combined with his own instincts told him something was definitely wrong. He pulled to his mind the last image of his brother as he'd walked away toward the waiting helicopter. He had glanced back at Dean, and his brother had smiled at him and given a thumb's up, assuring him that everything would be fine. And Sam had believed him…Sam always believed him.

He glanced at the clock on the wall, noting it was shortly after six. That meant almost four hours had passed since he had last seen his dad and brother. John had told him after lifting him into the helicopter that he would see Sam soon, and he knew only one thing could be keeping his dad from fulfilling that promise.

Something had happened with Dean.

The minutes seemed to tick by with agonizing slowness, and Sam couldn't seem to keep his gaze off the clock. He tried turning on the TV to distract his mind from all the _maybes_ and _what ifs_, but after a half an hour of watching, he had yet to digest anything he had seen. The face of the clock seemed to swim through his vision, even when he was purposefully _not_ looking at it, the seconds ticking a slow rhythm he thought he could feel resonating inside his head.

Finally, it was too much.

Sam reached for the remote beside his bed, intending to summon the nurse, but before his finger could find the button, the door swung open and his father stepped quietly into the room.

Sam jerked further upright in the bed, ignoring the sharp twinge of pain from his side and the sudden flare of nausea that the abrupt move ignited. "Dad," he gasped, feeling at once both relieved and nervous.

John shut the door gently behind him, then turned to face the bed. Any hope that Sam had held that he might be over-reacting, that nothing was terribly wrong after all, faded as soon as he caught sight of his father's face. John's expression was pinched and worried, a shadow lingering in his eyes that set Sam's heart racing.

"Dad?" Sam heard the fear in his voice, but didn't care. "Dad…where's Dean?

* * *

John hated hospitals in general, but if there was one portion that he disliked more than any other, it was the CCU. For some reason the smell of antiseptic was always stronger here, and the hush that permeated the air reminded him of the quiet of a graveyard at midnight. Death was a palpable presence in this part of the hospital, slipping soundlessly through the hallways and lurking in dark corners, waiting silently to claim its next victim.

_But it's not taking Dean!_

The thought flowed unbidden through his head, and he felt his hands tighten on the handles of the wheelchair in front of him. The ER doctor's words kept flowing through his head over and over again; _punctured lung…respiratory distress…critical condition._ The man had made sure John was aware of the seriousness of the situation, but the truth was, they didn't know Dean the way he did. His son was a fighter, as simple as that. He would pull through and be just fine. Considering anything less was not even an option for John.

Of course, that didn't mean he didn't realize exactly how close he had already come to losing his son. He could still remember gripping Dean tightly against him, encouraging his son to hold on, to just breathe. If the rescue helicopter had been only a few minutes later in arriving, and if the paramedic on board had not been familiar with the procedure necessary to intubate Dean and force air into his unresponsive body, then the Winchester family would currently be short one member. It was a harsh truth that left John feeling more than a little shaky.

This wasn't the first tough hunt his family had faced, but it _was _the first hunt where John had come so close to losing both his boys. He knew it would haunt him for some time to come.

A small sound from the chair in front of him pulled John from his thoughts, and he glanced down at the top of Sam's head as he steered the wheelchair toward the large double doors that would lead them back into the critical care unit. He couldn't see his son's face, but there was definitely a strain to Sam's breathing, and his grip on the armrests of the chair was white knuckled.

"You alright, kiddo?" John asked softly, reaching forward to press the intercom button next to the wide doors. They would have to be unlocked from within, as the CCU was a restricted access portion of the hospital.

A small grunt and a nod of his shaggy head was John's only answer, and he let out a small sigh, wondering not for the first time if he had made the right decision allowing Sam to make this trip. As soon as his youngest had learned the news about Dean, he had insisted that he needed to see him. John had tried to convince him to wait until the morning when he would hopefully feel a little stronger, but Sam had adamantly insisted that he needed to see Dean now!

Dr. Cooper, Sam's physician, had been dead set against this excursion, insisting that Sam's blood pressure was still too low and he needed to stay in the room and rest in order for his body to recuperate. Strangely enough, it had been this argument that had convinced John to allow Sam the trip. He knew there was absolutely no way his son would be able to relax enough to rest until he had been allowed to see his brother. At least, not without some heavy duty sedatives, which Dr. Cooper had already admitted he was hesitant to use lest they mess with Sam's already low blood pressure.

It hadn't been easy to convince the doctor, but eventually the man had worn down under John's arguments and Sam's pleading, agreeing to let Sam go on the condition that he only stay an hour.

Now, John hoped he had made the right decision. It had taken several minutes to get Sam unhooked from the multiple machines he was attached to and settled into the wheelchair, and by the end of it Sam's face had been a ghostly shade of white. John was half expecting his son to either throw up or pass out…or perhaps both. But with a visible effort, Sam had pulled himself together, an iron mask of determination slipping over his features, reminding John that Dean was not the only tough son he had.

There was a small buzz and click from the door as it was unlocked by someone on the other side, and then it swung slowly open, revealing the CCU. The special ward was laid out in a rough circle, with over a dozen small rooms surrounding a large nurses' station in the center of the unit. The walls of the rooms were made of glass, revealing neatly made beds and an array of medical equipment stashed in each one. Three of the rooms had curtains drawn across the doorway, and John immediately made out the name 'Dean Williams' scrawled in black marker on the nameplate of one of them. Even across the unit he could make out the whisper-hiss of the ventilator, and his insides seemed to twist nauseatingly in response to the sound.

A nurse moved from the station to come and greet them, smiling in a friendly manner. She obviously was expecting them, for she motioned them forward, leading the way to Dean's room without comment. John took a deep breath, reaching down to squeeze Sam's shoulder gently before silently moving forward after her.

* * *

Sam felt his stomach twist with apprehension as he slowly approached the curtained off area that marked Dean's room. He found it amazing that he could feel so anxious to see his brother, and yet dread it at the same time. He found himself holding his breath, the sound of the ventilator filling his ears as the nurse moved into the small room, lifting a hand to brush back the curtain surrounding the bed.

Sam's gaze immediately sought out Dean's form, tears springing unbidden to his eyes at the first glimpse of his injured brother. Dean looked surprisingly small beneath the mound of tubes and wiring that crisscrossed his slim form, the white tube protruding from his mouth looking like some monstrous deformity trying to force its way up and out of his body. His eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling to the steady rhythm of the ventilator, his features pale and drawn. A blanket covered him to mid-chest, showing off the top of the bandages binding his ribs, and another bandage wrapped around his head, replacing the strip of shirt Sam had used earlier. His arms were resting at his sides, and Sam could make out what looked like cloth handcuffs binding his brother's wrists to the rails of the bed.

This whole thing felt like a horrible nightmare, and he yearned to just wake up. Dean would be beside his bed, commiserating over his stitches, teasing him about the nurses, and encouraging him to sign his cast. That was what _should_ have happened. That was the way it was _supposed_ to be. He swallowed hard, fighting to keep the moisture pooling in his eyes from spilling over. Never in his life had he seen Dean looking so sick…so weak. The sight terrified him. He was having a hard time reconciling his final image of his brother…waving and giving him a thumbs up…with the still and broken figure before him. It just didn't seem possible.

"I'll let Doctor Morrison know you're here," the nurse said quietly, giving both Winchesters another small smile before leaving them alone in the tiny room.

John pushed Sam's chair up close beside the bed, and Sam reached out to touch his brother's arm, hesitating at the last moment. Dean looked so fragile, Sam was afraid the slightest touch might somehow hurt him.

"It's okay, Sam." John's gentle words reminded Sam that he wasn't alone, and he glanced up at his father, seeing an immense pool of emotion reflected in John's normally steady gaze. "You won't hurt him."

Sam nodded, allowing his hand to fall lightly against Dean's forearm amidst the tangle of wires and cords. "Hey man," he whispered, emotion making his throat tight. "What do you think you're doing…lying down on the job?"

The whisper-hiss of the ventilator was his only reply, and Sam fought to choke down a sob. Dean was so quiet, so still. It was unnerving because his brother was _never _this still. He was action and motion, always busy, always moving. Even when sleeping Dean tossed and turned, his body in constant need of motion. Sam hated seeing him like this…resembling a corpse more than his active and energetic brother.

A low cough from behind him had Sam twisting in the wheelchair, grimacing as the motion ignited a flare of pain along his side. A tall black man in a white coat stood just inside the room, observing them with a clinically detached expression.

"Dr. Morrison," John greeted. The doctor moved forward, reaching out to give John's hand a single shake before his gaze fell on Sam. "This is my son, Sam," John said by way of introduction, and Sam exchanged a simple nod with the man.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Dr. Morrison intoned in a deep voice, his facial expression never changing.

"How's Dean doing?" John asked, drawing Dr. Morrison's gaze from Sam.

"Your son is a very sick man, Mr. Williams," the doctor replied, his voice businesslike. "The lungs are a delicate organ, and once injured, it takes a while to heal." He stopped and cleared his throat, his eyes shifting to Dean's prone form. "With that much being said, I have to add that he is doing remarkably well, all things considered. His vitals have remained stable and he seems to be holding his own pretty well. We have him on the ventilator to give his lungs a chance to heal, but hopefully he will begin to breathe on his own again soon. Right now we are keeping him heavily sedated as he's already tried to pull the tubes out once."

Sam winced, glancing down at the strips of cloth binding his brother's wrists to the bed. He could only imagine the panic he would feel if he woke up with a tube stuck down his throat. He felt his fingers flex slightly, pressing against the skin of his brother's arm in an unconscious gesture of comfort.

"What about his other injuries?" John asked, his voice matching the doctor's in its business-like tone.

Doctor Morrison gave a small half-shrug. "He has some mild swelling around his brain indicative of a concussion, but nothing that overly concerns us. He's running a low grade fever, but that's not that surprising considering the extent of his injuries. We're monitoring it and as long as it doesn't get any worse, he should be fine. I've schedule some x-rays for his ankle tomorrow morning. They should tell us whether he'll need surgery later to set the bone correctly. We'll need to watch his lungs pretty closely over the next several days, but barring any unexpected complications, they should heal without the need for further surgical intervention. All in all, your son is a very lucky man, Mr. Williams."

Sam stared down at his brother, unsure if 'lucky' was a word he would use to describe Dean at the moment. His brother was a mess. Still, considering all they had gone through, he knew things could have been worse…much worse. It was a miracle Jeremiah hadn't killed Dean outright when he had thrown him off the cliff.

The doctor was saying something more, and with an effort Sam pulled his thoughts back to the present.

"Your father tells me it was you who put the clay on your brother's ankle," Dr. Morrison addressed Sam. "I must say, I'm impressed. It helped keep the ankle from shifting and causing more damage. Very well done, young man." The doctor offered the first hint of a smile.

Sam blinked up at him, his brain taking a moment to catch up with the doctor's words. When it did, he flushed and looked down at his lap. "Thanks," he mumbled.

"You should look into a career in medicine," Dr. Morrison continued. "We could use a few more 'out of the box' thinkers like you, if you ask me."

Sam felt his flush deepen, and wished that the doctor would just drop it already. "I already know what I want to be," he muttered in reply, his voice barely above a whisper. He could sense John's eyes on him, but couldn't bring himself to meet his father's gaze. Let his dad interpret that however he wanted. Sam was simply too tired to care anymore.

"Pity," Morrison replied, already turning toward the door of the room. "Let me know if you need anything further." And with that, he was gone.

Sam let out a long breath, leaning forward to rest his head against the guardrail of his brother's bed, his hand still gripping Dean's arm. A moment later he felt a hand settle against the back of his neck.

"Sammy?" John asked quietly. "Do you need to go back to your room?"

Sam shook his head, rolling his forehead against the hard plastic of the rail. He was exhausted, hurting and afraid, but right now he was exactly where he needed to be.

John was silent for a moment, and then the hand on the back of Sam's neck squeezed once and then lifted. Sam heard his father moving about the room, and looked up in time to see John pull an uncomfortable looking plastic chair up to the far side of Dean's bed. Sinking down into it with a small sigh, he reached out and placed a large, work-worn hand on top of Dean's. John's gaze found Sam's across the bed, a silent message passing between them with that single glance.

They would keep watch together. For now at least, Dean would not be alone.

* * *

The next morning, Sam was released from the hospital.

Upon his return to the room, Dr. Cooper had given him some pretty powerful pain killers, and despite his fear to the contrary, Sam had slept soundly through the night. If he was plagued by any bad dreams, he did not remember them. He awoke in the early morning feeling stiff and sore, but otherwise much better. He even managed to maneuver his way to the bathroom on his own, and if his steps resembled a ninety year old, he at least made it there without pitching face first onto the floor.

He longed for a hot shower but had to settle for a warm washcloth and a bar of soap instead. By the time he was done washing his face and as much of the rest of his body as he could easily reach, he was out of breath and shaky, and had to move back to the bed before he fell down.

The next hour passed by in a blur. A nurse came by to take his vitals and give him some more pills, which Sam took without question. Shortly after, a breakfast tray was brought in, the tantalizing smell of bacon and coffee making his stomach rumble and reminding him that it had been some time since he had last eaten.

He was halfway through the tray when his father showed up, entering with a cup of coffee in one hand, and a familiar brown duffel in the other. Sam eyed the duffel with barely concealed excitement, knowing it contained his spare clothes and toiletry items. Obviously his father had gone and picked up Dean's car, which would explain why he hadn't been in the room when Sam woke.

"How ya feeling, son?" John asked softly, dropping the duffel at the bottom of the bed and running a critical eye over Sam's form.

"Better," Sam replied honestly. "Have you been up to see Dean yet this morning?"

John shook his head, moving over to stand by the window. "The CCU won't open to visitors until nine," he replied simply, gazing out the window into the hazy morning light. Sam waited for him to say more, but his father remained silent, staring out the window and sipping at his coffee. He looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes and a weary slump to his shoulders. The nurse had told Sam that John had stayed at the hospital all night, sitting in the chair beside his bed and only leaving for the occasional cup of coffee. Even though he had been too out of it to know his father was there, Sam found he was strangely grateful that he had stayed.

He turned back to his breakfast, no longer feeling hungry but knowing that he would need the energy the food would provide in order to make it through the day. He was just finishing up the last of his eggs when there was a knock on the door, and Dr. Cooper entered.

Sam eyed the man warily, wondering if the doctor was still upset at being strong-armed into allowing Sam to see his brother. He knew from all too much experience that a determined Winchester was a force to be reckoned with, and last night, the man had done an admirable job trying to face down _two_ of them. He had failed, of course, but Sam still had to respect the fact that he had tried.

If Dr. Cooper was still feeling upset about the incident, he didn't show it, smiling at Sam and moving to stand next to the bed. "How are you feeling this morning, young man?" he asked brightly, peering down at Sam intently. "You certainly look much better…less pale."

Sam nodded. "I feel much better, thank you."

Dr. Cooper nodded. "Glad to hear it. Now let's take a peek at those stitches, shall we?" He quickly pulled on some sterile gloves and then gently reached out to peel back the bandages on Sam's side. Looking down, Sam couldn't help but wince at the four rows of neat black sutures marching across his ribs. There were a lot of them, and he knew he was going to have a pretty spectacular scar when all was said and done. Dean would be jealous.

"Very good," Dr. Cooper stated brightly, replacing the bandage and moving on to check Sam's arm. "Stitches seem to be holding well, your blood pressure is back to normal, and you're not running a fever. Ready to get out of here, Sam?"

Sam nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, sir." He was anxious to get back up to Dean. He had been glancing toward the clock every few minutes all morning, yearning for the freedom to go and see his brother again."

"Well, I already have Karen working on your release paperwork. It will include detailed instructions on how to take care of your wounds, a prescription for antibiotics and some pain meds, and when you need to come back to get the stitches removed. Make sure you take all of the antibiotics, and if you start experiencing any problems…severe pain, bleeding through the stitches, swelling or fever…come back here right away, okay?"

Sam nodded his understanding, having been through this whole spiel on more than one occasion. He had dealt with stitches before, if not ever this many at once.

"Just make sure you take it easy for the next couple of days," Dr. Cooper went on. "Your body's been through quite the ordeal, and it's going to take a while for you to fully recover. You'll need plenty of rest, and don't be surprised if you feel a little shaky at times."

Before he could reply, John spoke up quietly from across the room. "Don't worry, doc. I'll take good care of him. I promise."

Sam glanced over to find his father's gaze locked on him. His words had been directed at the doctor, but Sam couldn't help but think that his dad was talking to him as well. He gave a small smile, hoping his father would recognize the unspoken gratitude in his expression. John gave him a tired smile in return, along with a small nod of his head.

"As Sam is still a minor, I'll need your signature on the paperwork," Dr. Cooper informed him, turning toward the door and giving Sam one last glance. "Please don't hesitate to let me know if you have any questions or concerns. My extension will be on the paperwork, so you can call me directly."

"Thanks," Sam replied sincerely. Despite their argument the previous night, he found he liked the friendly warmth of Dr. Cooper much more than the cold indifference of Dr. Morrison.

Once John had left with the doctor to sign the release paperwork, Sam carefully maneuvered out of bed and began the slow and painful process of getting dressed. He settled on dark sweat pants and a loose fitting button up shirt, aiming for comfort rather than style. He was just finishing up when his father re-entered the room, pushing a wheelchair in front of him.

Sam sighed softly at the sight of the chair, but he didn't bother trying to argue against it. He always felt ridiculous rolling along in one of those, but if he was honest, he would have to admit that this time he was grateful for it. Just the act of getting dressed had left him feeling weak and shaky, and the thought of walking up to the CCU was not a pleasant one.

"Am I a free man now?" he asked, sinking down into the chair, his duffel resting on his lap.

"Free and ready to go," John answered. "I also went down to the hospital's pharmacy and picked up your prescriptions." He handed a white paper sack over Sam's shoulder.

"Thanks," Sam mumbled, slipping the bag down into the edge of his duffel. "I'm ready."

* * *

The next twelve hours were some of the longest in Sam's life.

He did not leave Dean's side at all, except for a few needed personal moments in the small bathroom next to the room. Despite his growing weariness, he didn't allow himself to sleep either, but kept his quiet vigil, alternating between watching the small TV over Dean's bed and speaking softly to his brother, his words an offering of encouragement and comfort. He knew Dean couldn't hear him, but he hoped on some deep level his brother would be able to sense his presence and know he was not alone.

John also remained faithfully by his son's side, leaving only a handful of times; twice for some coffee, once to grab some sandwiches for them from the cafeteria, and once to make a few phone calls. It was the most time Sam could remember being in his father's presence in a long time without some sort of argument ensuing. He was glad John was there, his father's voice picking up his words of encouragement and reassurance when Sam's faltered in the face of his brother's continual lack of response.

Nurses filtered in throughout the day, and even Doctor Morrison made several appearances, checking monitors and delivering medication through the IV ports. Occasionally the machine operating the respirator would let off a series of loud beeps. The first time it had happened, Sam had jerked upright in his chair, exchanging an alarmed look with his father. His panic was short lived, however, as a nurse informed them that the beeps were merely indicating that Dean's lungs were attempted to work on their own. "It's a good thing," she told them gently. "It means they are beginning to heal and he's starting to want to regulate his own breathing."

After that, Sam began to listen for the beeps eagerly, his gaze searching his brother's face for any sign that Dean might be waking up. But as the hours dragged by with no change, he felt his hopes slowly dwindling. He knew they were still keeping Dean heavily sedated, and as frustrated as that knowledge made him, he could also understand the need. He wanted Dean awake, but he knew his brother was probably better off unaware. Dean would only panic if he woke now, a tube shoved down his throat and a machine breathing for him. Still, it didn't stop him from wishing for a glimpse of those familiar green irises.

Time lost all meaning for Sam, and so it came as somewhat of a surprise when a nurse appeared to tell them that visiting hours for the CCU were over and they would have to leave. Sam blinked up at her wearily, feeling more drained and exhausted than he cared to admit, but still ready to argue for the chance to stay for just a little bit longer.

The nurse never gave him the chance. "The best thing you can do for your brother right now is to go home and get some rest," she stated in a firm but gentle voice. "You won't be doing him any good if you make yourself sick. Don't worry, we'll take good care of him."

"She's right, Sam," John spoke up from across the bed, slowly rising to his feet and moving around to stand next to Sam's chair. "You look like death warmed over, son. It's time you get some rest."

Sam wasn't sure his father had any room to talk…he couldn't remember ever seeing the man looking so rough…but he realized that arguing wasn't going to get him anywhere. Besides, he was simply too tired to make the necessary effort.

After promising Dean's silent form that he would be back first thing in the morning, Sam allowed his father to wheel him from the room, looking back for a final glimpse of his brother before the nurse drew the curtain closed. He suddenly felt empty and lost, drifting at sea without a lifeboat.

They ate a quick and mostly silent meal in the hospital cafeteria, and then walked a block and a half to a nearby hotel. It was a lot nicer than the usual places they frequented, with an actual running fountain in the main lobby and free HBO and Wi-Fi offered in every room. Sam barely noticed. Exhaustion sat heavy on his shoulders, muting sounds and turning faces into indistinct blurs.

Once they got to their room, John shoved a handful of pills at Sam, along with a glass of water.

Sam swallowed the pills without argument, then collapsed gingerly onto the nearest bed. The sheets were soft, the pillows comfortable, and in his current state Sam should have gone right to sleep. Instead, he tossed and turned, his side and arm throbbing with persistent pain, the image of his brother's still, pale face haunting him every time he closed his eyes.

Eventually, the painkillers kicked in, and he was finally able to drift to sleep. Dreams haunted him, indistinct and unformed, like shadows dogging his footsteps, feeding off his fear and uncertainty. He woke several times, tangled amongst the blankets, shaking and sweating. The overwhelming sense of emptiness and loss refused to leave him, and his throat burned with the effort of holding back tears. He could hear the even breathing of his father from the other bed, but even that familiar sound failed to work to comfort him.

What he really needed was Dean.

In the early hours of the morning, sheer exhaustion eventually won the battle for his subconscious, and he finally drifted into the deeper realms of sleep, to a place where his nightmares could not follow.

He woke hours later to a rough hand on his shoulder, his father's voice urging him toward consciousness. He blinked open blurry eyes, surprised to see the bright sunlight filtering in around the edges of the curtains. "'M awake," he muttered drowsily, lifting one hand to rub at his gritty eyes. His mouth was dry, like he had swallowed a cotton ball, and his limbs felt heavy and unresponsive. He was half tempted to simply roll over, lift the blanket over his head, and go back to sleep. But his need to see Dean outweighed even his weariness, and with a low groan he used his right arm to push himself upright, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

John moved away, returning a moment later with more pills and another glass of water. Sam took them with a nod of appreciation, then glanced toward the alarm clock sitting on the table beside the bed. He nearly choked on the pills when he saw the red digits, the readout showing him that it was nearly 10:30.

He cast his father a slightly accusing look. "Why didn't you wake me earlier?" he demanded, pushing himself off the bed and glancing around for his duffel bag.

John shrugged. "You needed the sleep," he replied simply, his gaze unapologetic.

Sam couldn't exactly argue with that, so he merely grabbed his duffel and headed for the bathroom. Despite his desire to get back to the hospital as soon as possible, he decided to try for a shower. It took some creative maneuvering to avoid soaking the bandages on his arm and side, but by the time he turned off the water and stepped from the shower, he felt more alert and refreshed than he had in days. Even the muted pain in his side and arm seemed somehow more tolerable.

He dressed quickly, exiting the bathroom to find his father waiting patiently at the small table in the corner.

"You need to eat something?" John stated, holding out a plastic wrapped pastry. "I figured you probably wouldn't want to stop and grab something from the hospital cafeteria, so I grabbed this from the vending machine at the end of the hall."

Sam took the offered pastry with a nod, then glanced toward the coffee maker at the edge of the table. "Any coffee left?" he asked.

John grabbed one of the paper cups next to the machine and silently poured him a cup, adding two packets of sugar and a creamer before passing it over. Sam felt his eyebrows climb in surprise. He'd had no idea that his dad knew how he liked his coffee. It was an observation that he would have expected from Dean, certainly, but not necessarily his father. John wasn't exactly the most observant…at least not when it came to his sons.

As if he could read his thoughts, his father gave him a small smile before turning to sweep his gaze across the room. "Dean would like this place," he commented casually. "No suspicious stains on the sheets."

Sam let out a small huff of laughter, tearing the wrapper from his pastry and downing half of it in a single bite. "The stains don't bother me," he replied around his mouthful of food. "It's the smells that always drive me crazy."

John let out a low chuckle, and Sam found himself relaxing slightly. He couldn't remember the last time he had sat down and eaten a meal…albeit a pretty pathetic one…alone with his father. He decided he couldn't include last night in the hospital cafeteria, as he had been half unconscious at the time and there had been no conversation. It was nice, but at the same time it somehow made him miss his brother even more. He had realized a long time ago that Dean was what made their family a family…without him, they would have crumbled apart a long time ago.

"Let's go," he said suddenly, feeling his earlier anxiousness to get to the hospital return. He quickly swallowed the last of the pastry, washing it down with his coffee. His father didn't say anything, merely finished his own coffee and then rose and followed Sam to the door.

Sam used the short walk back to the hospital to mentally prepare himself for the day ahead. Dean had _always_ been there for him, through thick and thin, and now it was Sam's turn to return the favor. He was determined not to let his brother down.

They had just reached the hospital entrance when John's cell phone began to ring. Sam paused at the door, watching as his father pulled the phone from his pocket. He glanced at the caller ID, then looked over at Sam. "Pastor Jim," he informed, flipping the phone open.

Sam bit his lower lip, glancing longingly toward the hospital doors. He glanced back at his father and found John silently waving him onward. Sam gave him a quick nod, then slipped into the building, heading straight toward the elevators.

He arrived at the CCU five minutes later. He was halfway to his brother's room when his mind suddenly registered the unnatural quiet around him. He missed a step, stumbling slightly when he realized the whisper hiss of the ventilator was glaringly absent. He felt his heart beginning to pound in his chest, hope and fear blossoming in equal parts. In front of him, he could hear the low murmur of voices from behind the curtain leading into Dean's room.

Stepping forward, he reached up and grabbed the curtain, sweeping it aside and quickly taking in the scene before him. Dr. Morrison and two nurses looked up in startled surprise at Sam's sudden entrance, but he barely noticed them, his eyes glued to the figure on the bed between them; the figure that was currently sitting up against a mound of pillows, looking tired and drained, but very much awake. The breathing tube was gone, and though Dean still had more wires attached to him than a telephone pole, the very fact that he was awake and breathing on his own sent a thrill of joy through Sam that almost had him yelling out loud.

Dean glanced in his direction, green eyes meeting hazel, and Sam felt a wave of relief wash over him, the force nearly buckling his legs. One corner of Dean's mouth turned up slightly, and then he spoke, his voice soft and rough, and yet the most beautiful sound Sam had ever heard.

"Hiya, Sammy."

* * *

It was a warm afternoon, the sun shining down from a clear blue sky and birdsong drifting on the morning breeze. In the distance, church bells were calling the faithful to worship, while the distant buzz of lawnmowers and the smell of freshly cut grass filled the air. All in all, it was a beautiful day.

Dean barely noticed any of it as he shifted impatiently in the wheelchair, his neck craned to the side as he anxiously watched the front drive for any sign of his beloved Impala. He had no idea what could be keeping Sam so long, but if his brother didn't show up soon, he was going to get out of this chair and start walking, broken ankle be damned. Over a week in the hospital, and he was _more_ than ready to get the hell out of dodge.

They would be heading to Pastor Jim's. His father had made the announcement while Dean was waiting for his release paperwork. He had informed them that they would be staying there for at least a month, giving both boys a chance to rest and recover. He had also mentioned getting Sam pre-registered in the nearby high-school, his gaze locked on Dean while he spoke.

Dean had merely nodded, his gaze dropping to his lap, his mind a swirl of at-war emotions. On the one hand he felt a small thrill of victory, knowing that Sam would be able to stay at one school and work on getting the perfect grades he so desperately wanted. On the other hand, if this plan worked, and if he was correct about Sam's intentions, then he had to face the unsettling fact that all too soon his brother would be leaving. The fear of that moment was strong enough that he could feel his earlier determination waiver. Nothing had changed, he still wanted to see Sam safe, but he was beginning to wonder if he had acted too hastily, if there might not be a different way, a better way, of achieving that goal…one that didn't involve Sam leaving them.

'_But that's what he wants,' _a traitorous voice whispered in the back of his mind, and try as he might he could not banish it. It had been enough to sour his mood for the rest of the morning, despite the relief over his imminent release.

The familiar roar of the Impala's engine caught Dean's attention, and he sat up straighter in the chair, a small smile on his face at the sight of the shiny, black car turning into the hospital's front drive, his father's truck following closely behind.

"Nice wheels."

Dean jerked in surprise. The orderly standing behind his chair had been so silent that he'd almost forgotten the man's presence. "Thanks," he replied, his smile slipping into something more resembling a smirk. He was proud of his baby and always appreciated when others saw her beauty, not just her age.

The Impala pulled to a stop and Sam jumped out, hurrying around to open the passenger side door. The orderly wheeled the chair directly up to the car, and Dean prepared to lever himself up and out of the chair and over into the car. Suddenly, he felt Sam's hand reach out to grasp his elbow, his brother leaning over and invading his space in his effort to be helpful.

"Dude, I've got it," Dean ground out, fighting for patience. "It's like two feet!"

He was _so_ done being babied. Sam had been mother hen extraordinaire for the last week, and Dean had graciously put up with it, knowing he owed his brother something for almost dying on him. But enough was enough, and if Sam thought the coddling was going to continue now that Dean was released from the hospital, he was quickly going to learn differently.

A hurt expression flashed briefly across Sam's face as he backed away slightly, and Dean found himself fighting down a sigh. He quickly levered himself up and over, sliding into the passenger seat, his right leg stuck out awkwardly in front of him. He had to fight back a grimace as his numerous bruises let their presence be known, but in a second he was sinking down into the seat, breathing deeply the familiar fragrance of his car.

He felt himself begin to relax for the first time in a week. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back, soaking in the comforting warmth of the seat through the thin cotton of his shirt.

The door slammed shut, and he heard Sam saying something to the orderly, then the driver's door opened and the rustle of cloth signified Sam had joined him in the car. He waited for several long seconds, but when the car failed to move, he opened one eye to peer over at his brother. Just as he had suspected, Sam was watching him while trying to pretend not to.

"You have to shift it into drive in order to go, Sammy," Dean mumbled, opening both eyes and sitting up straighter in the seat. "If you don't think you can handle it, I can take over…"

Sam smiled ruefully, flushing slightly as he shifted the car into gear and slowly pulled out of the hospital's drive. "So, how are you feeling?" he asked a moment later, his voice slightly _too_ nonchalant.

This time Dean didn't bother stifling the sigh. "I'm _fine_, Sammy," he growled, repeating himself for the millionth time in just one day. He had a slight headache, enough bruises on his back and chest to earn him a spot as the main display in a modern art exhibit, and a freakin' uncomfortable cast encasing his right ankle. Altogether, he couldn't help but think he was pretty darn lucky. Back in the park, he had been certain he was going to die.

Sam didn't push it, for which Dean was extremely grateful. Instead he merely asked, "What do you want to listen to?"

Dean leaned his head back against the warm glass of the window, shrugging his shoulders as he watched the town slipping by outside. "You choose," he offered. "Just none of that emo 'my-heart-can't-go-on-without-you' crap. I don't want to throw up inside my baby."

It was Sam's turn to sigh, but he obediently turned the car's radio to a station playing rock from the 80s and 90s. He kept the volume low, for which Dean was grateful. Normally he would have put full use to the car's amazing speaker system, but this morning he didn't think his head could handle it.

"So, what are the rangers saying about everything that happened?" he asked, watching as the town disappeared behind them to be replaced by rolling hills and tall trees. "They still saying the attacks were caused by some form of rabies?"

"I don't think they know _what_ to think," Sam answered, shrugging one shoulder. "Last I heard they had gone in and tranquillized a bunch of the wildlife in order to pull samples. My guess is it's probably going to take them a while before they figure out there's no longer a problem."

Dean let out a grunt. He didn't really care what the rangers made of all this. They had done their job and now people would be safe again. In the end, that was all that mattered.

Sam suddenly let out a low chuckle, causing Dean to arch a questioning eyebrow in his direction. "Something funny, Francis?"

"Dad got interviewed by the news," Sam blurted out, the amusement in his voice evident.

Dean felt his eyebrows shoot all the way up into his hairline. "No way," he retorted, staring at Sam and wondering if his brother was trying to get one by him. John's number one rule was to stay out of the public's line of sight. Always. No matter what. No exceptions. Period.

"Yep," Sam replied, his grin widening. "Apparently a lady reporter cornered him in the cafeteria. According to Dad, she was very…tenacious."

Dean stared at his brother, then slowly shook his head back and forth. "What did he say?" he finally asked, still half expecting Sam to tell him he was just pulling his leg.

"Oh, just the same story we came up with at the cabin…about our 'fishing accident.' It was in the paper a few days ago. She called us 'heroic survivors.'"

Dean let out a small huff. "Well, that's better than what most people call us," he snorted, turning his attention back to the passing scenery and making a mental note to get his hands on a copy of the article. After all, it was important to gather mementos for once in a lifetime events.

The thought of mementos reminded him of something, and with a sudden grin he twisted carefully around, reaching for the straps of his duffel bag sitting in the back seat.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked, glancing worriedly in his direction.

"Here," Dean grunted, locating the correct pocket of his duffel. "I know it's not your birthday or anything Sammy, but I got you something. You know, for all your help in the hospital and for just being there for me…"

Sam frowned. "Dean, you didn't have to do that," he objected, his expression earnest. "I'm your brother, of course I'm going to be there for you."

"Oh, but I did have to do it, Sammy. I really, _really,_ did." Dean retorted.

Something in his voice must have tipped Sam off, because his expression suddenly turned wary. Before he could say anything, Dean pulled the gift from the bag and plopped it down on Sam's lap, a vicious grin spreading across his face.

"What the…" Sam groaned, his eyes flashing from the road and down onto his lap. "You have _got_ to be kidding me. Seriously, Dean, how old _are _you?!"

Dean couldn't help it. He burst out laughing, one hand wrapping protectively around his protesting ribs. "Ahh, Sammy. You should have seen your face," he chortled, his laughter picking up a notch at the disgusted look on his brother's face.

"Yeah, yeah…hilarious," Sam groused, grabbing the stuffed cat and flinging it into the back seat. "Are you sure you ever grew out of puberty?"

Dean continued to chuckle, turning to watch the scenery fly by outside the Impala. From the corner of his eye, he saw a quick grin flash across his brother's face…one he was certain he was _not_ supposed to see.

He leaned back against the side of the passenger door, feeling truly relaxed for the first time. He allowed all thoughts of the future, of Sam and college, and everything else to fade from his mind.

They were together now, and for the moment, that was all he needed. For the moment, that was enough.

"So, Pastor Jim's," he stated, stretching his casted leg further beneath the dash to relieve a growing cramp in his knee. He let his head fall back against the glass, his eyes drifting closed.

"Yeah," Sam replied, his voice taking on a contemplative tone. "Should be a nice change of pace, huh?"

Dean smiled, not bothering to open his eyes. "Sure. And you'll get a chance to catch up with your girlfriend. What was her name again? Melanie? Mellissa?"

Sam's indignant splutters were lost beneath the low purr of the Impala as she gracefully swept down the road.

The End.

_Hope you all enjoyed! Thanks for sticking with me throughout this story. Please let me know what you think!_


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